


Captain America’s Cabinet

by deancasdracohar



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, White House AU, and by that I mean political talk ripped shamelessly from the west wing tv show, handwavey politics, not like graphic at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deancasdracohar/pseuds/deancasdracohar
Summary: Peter Parker gets a new job in the White House—personal aide to President Rogers’ Chief of Staff, Tony Stark.Unfortunately, the job keeps making him run into Quentin Beck, someone with which he has a past—a past he would rather forget. And a past that Tony can’t find out about, under any circumstances.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 95
Kudos: 162





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Just so u know a lotttt of the dialogue in this chapter is taken from the third (?) episode of The West Wing. You don’t need to watch the West Wing to read this fic, but if you’re recognizing it, that’s why. I do not understand how the government works. So. (Why are you writing a fic set in the White House, then? Good question. I wish I knew.)

Peter was in the White House. And his suit was from Goodwill. 

He and Aunt May had bought it a week ago, and, in the dim light of the secondhand store it had seemed fine, nice, even, but now, in the White House, surrounded by official-looking people rushing around in impeccable work clothes, all looking and sounding the part, he couldn’t help but feel like everyone could tell he hadn’t bought it from Brooks Brothers, or wherever you buy suits. God.

The good news was, as soon as he had walked in, no one seemed to pay him any attention, because everyone’s faces were hidden in clipboards or iPhones or trained on screens hung on the walls spewing news. He’d never been somewhere that buzzed so much. 

After he filled out his application for the messenger job and waited for a while, a man who had called himself  _ Happy  _ (“It’s my name, not my emotion,” the guy had said, and Peter had just nodded dumbly) had led him into a beautiful room with a large portrait of Roosevelt, where he was currently standing next to at a long table he was sure should be reserved for fancy meetings. And maybe tea, if they did that at the White House. Did they drink tea at the White House? Or was that still looked down upon because of the whole Boston thing?

He had been waiting for about twenty minutes now, and was starting to think that maybe whoever went over the applications for the messenger job had already rejected him and they were just waiting for him to get wise and see himself out. 

Just as he was thinking that, a man walked through the door. He had brown hair and a goatee, and was wearing a much, much nicer suit than Peter. Peter fiddled with his GUEST pass on the lanyard around his neck self-consciously.

This wasn’t just any guy. This was White House chief of staff Tony Stark. Why was he here? Peter was pretty sure Tony Stark didn’t talk to every messenger applicant. Or even every messenger. Maybe they had caught him for doing something illegal. Not that he’d done anything illegal. But maybe he, like, dealt drugs in his sleep or something. 

Don’t be stupid, Peter, he admonished himself, but somehow couldn’t shake the fear. Because what if?

“I’m supposed to vet you,” Mr. Stark said, walking around Peter. He was holding a Manila folder and reading something on the label. Peter glanced at it: scrawled on the label in hasty blue ink was his own name. 

“I beg your pardon, sir?” He said, and then cursed internally. Good start, Parker. 

“I’m supposed to vet you. Investigate, figure out if there are any problems. I’m Tony Stark, chief of staff.” He stuck out his hand to shake and looked at Peter for the first time, first in his eyes and then glanced at his person, clearly sizing him up. 

Peter shook it firmly. “Nice to meet you, sir.” 

“Alright, Peter. You can have a seat if you like,” Mr. Stark said, gesturing to the chair next to Peter while sitting himself. 

Peter looked nervously at the chair. It was probably more expensive than anything he had ever touched. 

“I don’t mind standing,” he said. 

But Stark wasn’t looking at him anymore. His gaze was trained somewhere behind Peter, out the doorway. “Friday?” He called, and Peter turned around. A woman wearing a sharp gray suit stopped and poked her head in the doorway. “I don’t need the sandwich. But I would like a bottle of water, as soon as humanly possible.” 

Friday nodded and left. Stark looked back at Peter. 

“So have a seat,” he said, and Peter sat, although he was still careful not to lean against the back of the chair. Stark opened up the folder. “I’m sure you understand why we have to do this. It’s a very sensitive job. It’s also a very  _ hard  _ job, 20 hour days aren’t uncommon. Long trips at the last minute. Moreover, there will be times when you have to make yourself invisible in plain sight as well as an undeniable force in front of those who want more time than we want to give. Sometimes those people will be kings and prime ministers. You understand so far?” 

Peter tried to pick that apart. Did Stark think he was someone else? Was there some other Peter waiting in another fancy room for a job interview? “Uh, sir, I’m sorry, but I think there’s been some kind of a mistake,” he said hesitantly. 

“Really,” Stark said, and leaned backward. 

Peter took a deep breath. “See, I came here, and I filled out an application for—“

“Yeah, I have your paperwork,” Stark cut him off. 

“Right,” Peter said quickly. “See, I came here, and I was looking for a job as a messenger.”

“Yes,” Stark said. “Friday, my secretary, looked at your application. She’s recommending you for a different job.”

A different job? He looked questioningly at Stark, but Stark was flipping through his file. 

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking—“ Peter began, but Stark cut him off again. 

“Personal aide to the President’s chief of staff. To me. And you don’t have to call me ‘sir’.”

Peter’s heart skittered. “I don’t understand.” 

“My personal aide. Traditionally a guy who, let’s see, excels academically, strong on personal responsibility and discretion, presentable appearance. I obviously get quite a few candidates who meet those qualifications so the rest is just gut instinct.” 

“But sir—“ 

“Or you could bribe me,” Stark said with a shrug. 

Peter took a moment. Folded his hands in his lap. “Sir, I—“

“Seriously, Peter. We call President Rogers ‘sir’. Everyone else is just ‘hey, when are you going to get me that thing I asked for’.” 

Just then, Friday came in and passed Stark a bottle of water. “Your water,” she said, and glanced at Peter once before leaving again. 

“I think there’s been a mistake,” Peter tried again. 

“I’ll say,” Stark said, not looking up from whatever paper he had his eye on, and Peter’s heart sunk. Clearly, Stark’s secretary had thought he was good for this job (which he wouldn’t be) and now he had just made a fool of himself in front of the  _ White House chief of staff  _ and now wouldn’t even get to be a regular messenger, like he had applied to be.

Not to mention he didn’t really  _ want  _ to be a personal aide. For reasons that he would absolutely not be telling anyone, let alone the President’s Chief of freaking Staff Tony Goddamn Stark. 

Just as Peter said, “I should go,” because clearly, Stark didn’t think he was fit for the job, and stood, Stark called, “Friday!” 

Friday turned back around. 

“‘Insuccessful’?” Stark said, dryly. 

“What’s the problem?” Friday said from the doorway. 

Stark leaned back in his chair and held up a different file, much thicker than the one on Peter. He tapped on the page he had just been reading. “I don’t think we’re allowed to make up our own words.” 

“Oh, and like there’s no chance it’s a typo?” She replied. 

“Change it, would you? Serious people are going to read it,” he said, and held the file out to Friday, who took it and left. 

Stark turned to Peter again and raised an eyebrow. “Peter, you’re standing again.” 

Peter bit his lip. “I-I came here for a messenger job,” he said, grasping for any holding he could, because he did not understand  _ anything  _ that was happening right now. 

Stark took a sip of his water. “Why aren’t you in college?” He asked.

Peter blushed. He had known it was stupid to try and get a job in the White House without a degree. But since it was only a messenger job, he had thought maybe it would be okay. “Well, I—“ 

“I mean, these transcripts. I’m the smartest person I’ve ever met, and your grades are better than mine were.” It wasn’t a joke, and Peter didn’t laugh, although he doubted his grades were actually better than Stark’s. 

“Mr. Stark—“ he tried. 

“Well, not really, but they’re close,” Stark amended. 

Peter didn’t really want to have this conversation, especially if it was just going to end up in him being rejected for any job. “It was an easy school,” he said quickly. 

“Midtown Tech? Don’t lie, I already told you I’m smart. I’ll catch you every time, and I hate liars. What, you didn’t want to go to college?” He asked mildly.

Peter resented that. After all, Stark’s parents had been wildly wealthy. And so was Stark himself, even if he’d given a lot of his fortune to charity when he’d entered politics. “My aunt doesn’t make a lot of money. I need to have a job, not to be in college right now. Once that’s more settled, I’ll go.” 

“Your parents aren’t around?” Stark asked, and took another sip of water. 

The question was casual, more casual than most people asked it, which was almost nice. “Died when I was a kid. And my uncle was shot and killed in a mugging a year ago.”  _ Right in front of me,  _ he didn’t say, but somehow, he was pretty sure Stark read it on his face.

Stark stilled at that. Looked at him more directly than he had before; it wasn’t just a glance, now, he was  _ reading  _ Peter. Peter tried determinedly not to look away. 

“Alright. Sit,” Stark said, and Peter took the seat again. “Peter, I’ve got some questions for you here from the counsel’s office as well as the department of treasury and the office of internal security. These questions are routine. There’s no cause for concern. You ready?” 

Peter looked at the packet Stark was flipping through. “Mr. Stark—“ he began. 

“Have you ever tried to overthrow the government?” Stark asked him with a wry grin. 

Peter sat up straight.  _ Self advocacy, Peter,  _ Aunt May’s voice echoed in his head. “Is it because the messenger job is not available anymore?” He asked. “Maybe if I came back at a different time—“

“Peter, this job is actually better than the messenger job,” Stark said, sarcasm seeping into his tone. “It pays more. No riding around town on a bicycle. And, also, you get to work directly with the President.” 

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. The thing was, this wasn’t a job he was qualified for. At all. And he’d rather not have Stark figure that out and fire him within the week. And as much as he trusted Stark, hero-worshipped him, really, he wasn’t keen on putting himself in a compromising position. Again. But Stark wasn’t Beck, he told himself. He’d read all about Tony Stark. Even in his tech-tycoon, billionaire days, he wasn’t Beck. 

_ But you didn’t suspect Beck, at first, either,  _ said the voice in his head, which he staunchly ignored. “So maybe if I come back, another time—“ he started. 

But Stark was looking behind Peter again, at the doorway. “Hi, Bruce,” he said. “Peter, this is Bruce Banner, Communications Director. Bruce, this is Peter Parker, here for Ted’s job.”

Dr. Banner was a kind-looking man who looked slightly older and slightly less put-together, though not by much, than Mr. Stark. Peter didn’t recognize him as immediately, because his face was less often plastered all over the news, but he had read countless position papers by Banner and in any other situation would be fanboying hard right now. Peter rose to shake his hand. 

“Nice to meet you. No need to get up,” Banner said. 

“I was here for the messenger job, Dr. Banner,” Peter tried to explain. 

Banner just grinned. “Friday’s got an eye for personnel.” 

Great. Another person to disappoint. “I’ve got a driver’s license, and my own bike, so—“

“I’ve got to ask you some more questions,” Stark interrupted. He liked doing that, apparently. 

“You ever try to overthrow the government?” Banner asked, looking at Peter seriously. 

“No, sir,” Peter said. Was that a joke, or an actual question on their forms? He couldn’t tell. 

“What the hell’s been stopping you?” Banner quipped. 

“Seriously, Peter,” Stark said, laughing. “I’ve got to ask you about your personal life.”

Banner looked at Stark, his smile suddenly gone. “No, you don’t.” 

Stark glanced at Peter and then looked back at Banner. “Yes, I do.” 

“Why?” Banner asked immediately, crossing his arms. 

Peter, as usual, wasn’t following. 

“Because I do,” Stark countered. 

Banner looked at Peter. “Peter, are you going to come to work early, stay late, do your job efficiently and discreetly?” 

Peter’s brain was desperately trying to catch up. Clearly, there was some argument going on, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “Well, as I was saying to Mr. Stark—“ 

“Thank you,” Banner said. So apparently it wasn’t just Stark who liked cutting him off, it was everyone in the White House. “What more do you need to know?” 

Stark pointedly didn’t look at Banner, instead turned to Peter. “Peter, tell me about your social life. Your friends, what you like to do.” 

“I cannot believe you,” Banner said angrily. 

“Well, th-there’s my Aunt May, and, um,” Peter said, looking back and forth between the two men. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you’re asking.” 

“He’s asking if you’re gay, Peter, and I wouldn’t answer the damn question,” Banner said, glaring at Stark. 

Peter felt his cheeks heat up. He  _ was  _ gay, it wasn’t like he  _ hid  _ it, but he didn’t announce it to people, especially not people he was being interviewed by for a job. Was this why he was being denied the messenger job? Or being  _ offered  _ the job? He was pretty sure that was illegal, though he wasn’t sure if that was true in D.C. 

Stark sighed. “Alright, that’s it, let’s take a walk, Bruce,” he said. 

“Feel free to sue us, kid. Heck, I’ll represent you!” Banner said to Peter. 

“Let’s go,” Stark said, grabbing Banner by the arm and leading him out of the room. 

Just like that, Peter was alone again. 

This was not how he had expected his day to go. 

First of all, he still couldn’t wrap his head around why exactly he was being offered the personal aide job. As Stark had pointed out, he hadn’t even gone to college. Stark didn’t even know he had helped with a political campaign before, since it wasn’t on his resume. He certainly wasn’t qualified, and whatever Stark saw in him probably wasn’t there. 

And now Stark was asking if he was gay? Peter was pretty sure he had read that Tony Stark was pansexual, somewhere, so Peter was pretty sure that he wouldn’t get rejected for being gay (if that was legal), but then again, one thing all of American knew (and either loved or hated, depending on political affiliation), was that Tony Stark could get away with things that other people just couldn’t. 

And that was true still, because even though Peter knew that he should be setting his sights low, trying for the messenger job, not getting ahead of himself, his head was already running with the idea of being Tony Stark’s  _ personal aide.  _ He was hesitantly excited about it, even. And also vaguely terrified. But Tony wasn’t like Beck. He wasn’t. 

Unless, of course, he was. 


	2. Chapter Two

Bruce was practically spitting at him as Tony led him from the room. Tony would have worried about the people all around thinking badly of them, if he ever worried about what other people thought. Which he did not. 

“I cannot believe you,” Bruce continued. 

Tony took a deep breath. “It’s a reasonable question, Bruce. It’s not like his job hinges on it, or I’m going to deny him the job if he says yes. But there are images to consider—“ 

“Images? What, we have a gay quota and one more will put us over the edge?”

Which honestly could be true. Their administration was wildly gay, although many of them kept it on the down low because the American public was still, unfortunately, largely homophobic. Of course, Steve was straight, because the President of fucking America couldn’t exactly be a flaming homosexual, but Pepper and Tony and Bruce were all gay, and he was pretty sure Nat was bi, although no one would ever actually know anything about Natasha. 

“I told you, him getting the job doesn’t hinge on—“ Tony began as he led Bruce past Friday, who looked at them questioningly, and into his dark office. 

“It doesn’t matter! You shouldn’t be asking in the first place!” Bruce said, throwing his hands in the air as he collapsed onto the couch—the part of the couch that wasn’t covered in books, that was. 

“I was just interested, okay, Bruce? Yeah, I shouldn’t have asked. But we hold ourselves to a different standard here than—“ 

“A higher standard, Tony. Not a lower one. Jesus.” Bruce shook his head. “Oh my god, please tell me you aren’t into the kid. Key word  _ kid. _ He’s, like, twenty.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. He had a modicum of professionalism. And Peter was practically a kid. “I’m not a—“ 

“You are a slut, Tony, don’t deny it, but you can’t hire the guy as your personal aide and then fuck him,” Bruce said plainly, and leaned forward, scanning Tony’s face.

“I’m not going to!” Tony protested. “Jeez, have a little faith, would you? He’s practically a kid. A  _ smart  _ kid. Putting off college to help his aunt out of debt. His uncle was shot in a mugging a year ago. Right in front of him, if my hunch is right, and my hunches are always right.”

Bruce whistled. “Yikes.” 

“But he’s—he’ll be very articulate when he’s less terrified. He’s clearly bright, went to Midtown Tech. Dedicated. Integrity coming out of his ass. Basically a skinnier Steve. He’s good for the job. Just…stop freaking him out, okay?” 

“You’re the one asking him if he’s gay, Tony,” Bruce admonished. 

Tony rolled his eyes. “Surreptitiously. He didn’t even realize.” 

“That didn’t make it better.”

Tony sat down. He did not have time for this, really. Ted had quit to work for some high-powered lobbying firm, which was good, great for Ted, a step up, but he had been slammed with work ever since losing him and there were papers piled up on his desk and he  _ hated  _ paperwork. And he had that meeting with the President later today, and he was pretty sure he could convince Peter to start immediately, but if he couldn’t, then he’d have to vet more people, and besides that being a hassle, he’d already gotten sort of attached to the guy. 

“What are we doing about this Thiel v. Bubba the Love Sponge court case?” Bruce said, picking up the briefing that Tony had left on the floor after reading it. 

Thiel. Thiel. For a moment, the name only summoned the guy he’d slept with ten years ago, until he remembered the very same Silicon Valley investor was now implicated in that strange, roundabout court case with the magazine and the professional boxer. And the sex tape. God, at least there had never been court cases about his sex tapes. “Bollea v. Gawker? Spangles doesn’t want to dip his toes in the water,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. 

“You’re kidding,” Bruce said, raising his eyebrows. “Does he know—“ 

“That Thiel was backing Bollea the whole time? Yeah, he knows. But it’s not something he wants to get into, especially not since he’s already got tensions going on with Silicon Valley,” Tony sighed. Thiel was  _ not  _ someone he liked thinking about, especially since they’d fucked ten years before, back when Tony was in tech. And a Republican. “And Mr. Pres has very, very hesitant backing on the abortion thing right now from a bunch of Thiel’s buddies. Not Thiel himself, of course, because he’s a raging Republican, but Stars and Stripes doesn’t want to screw it up by dragging the White House into another fight that it isn’t directly involved in.”

“But the abortion thing is the whole reason that it’s a problem. I mean, the implications for the right to privacy if this thing isn’t overturned—“ Bruce started, and Tony waved a hand. 

“Trust me, I know. But the President does not want to get into it, and he’s not backing down. And I’m not really into trying to convince the President of something, not when I’m already trying to work on this drug policy.” 

“Ah, yes. The drug policy.” 

Tony groaned, and leaned against his desk. “I do not want to talk about it. Pepper is already railing my ass, says the briefing room will be a mess when she announces that we’re shifting money from punishment to recovery. Which is insane, because all I’m doing is matching policy with literal science, but I guess the American public doesn’t like listening to science. Or even believing it.”

“What else is new?” Bruce chuckled.

“Seriously. Sometimes I can’t believe this is our job. Trying to make reasonable, helpful policy decisions and being stopped by people who wear tinfoil hats and think the Earth is flat.” 

Friday stuck her head in the door. “Tony, you’ve got your meeting with the President in...five minutes.” 

“Ah. Shit,” Tony said, shuffling papers around, looking for his briefing on said drug policies. He picked up the particularly large packet (Rhodey, the deputy chief of staff and his best friend since college, had already admonished him on the high word count, but hey, it was good policy, it deserved to kill a couple of trees) and waved to Bruce as he exited, who left in the other direction. 

When Tony went into the Oval Office, (a phrase that would have impressed him when he was about twelve, but was now his regular Tuesday; he wasn’t one of those losers who said they got  _ chills every time _ ), Steve was sitting at his desk. 

“Mr. President,” Tony said. He eyed the desk; sure enough, Steve was reading his briefing right now. 

Steve grimaced as he realized he’d been caught. “Sorry, Tony. I meant to read it earlier, but it’s been a day. This looks good, though, although I’m pretty sure you know what I’m going to say.” 

“And you know what I’m going to say. Mandatory minimums make it so people plead guilty to crimes that they didn’t even do just so they don’t go to prison for  _ longer,  _ not to mention they’re higher for crack cocaine than powder, which we all know is a blatantly racist—“

“And,” Steve said, setting the packet down on his desk. “Our justice system, as it is, does not have a way to try every single person suspected of a crime in a court of law.”

“I’m saying that’s a problem,” Tony argued. “And that has nothing to do with crack versus powder, so I fail to see the overall relevance.” 

Steve sighed, and stood up from his desk. “I’m not arguing with that. But you and I both know that this won’t pass easy, and opening it up to criticism on the economic front as well as the social front is dangerous, Tony. It might not hold up.” 

That was a bit rich, seeing as he hadn’t even read the briefing. But it was also true. 

“I hate reform,” Tony sighed. “It’s so goddamn slow.” 

“You chose the wrong job,” Steve observed.

“Yeah. Too bad I’m so good at it,” Tony said. 

Steve chuckled. “Yeah. Too bad. Any other news for me? You seem like you have this well in hand.” 

The rest of his meeting with the President went well, even if he wanted to assassinate Steve by the end of it, and then he’d had to talk to Pepper, which was nice but also, as always, vaguely terrifying, and then he’d had to talk to the Secretary of goddamn Defense about some email server problem, because  _ damn him for working in tech for a decade, that didn’t mean he could hack into your email every time you forgot your password, (although he could and did),  _ and then, of course, he’d had to talk to the President again to brief him about said email server, and by the time he got a break to breathe, hours had passed. So, a regular day at the White House, then.

He was back in his office, checking his voicemail for any new messages, when  _ Peter  _ occurred to him. “Fri?” He called. 

“Yeah, boss?” Friday replied. 

“Where’s Peter?” He asked. He’d almost forgotten about the guy. He hoped he wasn’t still sitting in that room, asking anyone who would talk to him about his messenger job. 

She grinned, leaning against the door. “He’s filling out his employment stuff at personnel.”

Thank god, a bit of good news. Although he hadn’t really imagined Peter would ever turn the job down. “How’s he doing?” Tony said. 

“He looked pretty freaked,” she shrugged. 

Tony grinned, thinking about how wildly confused the guy had seemed a few hours ago. “He’s a gamer. I can pick ‘em.” 

“If you say so,” Friday shrugged. “Anyway, Pepper’s here to talk to you.” 

“Lead with that!” Tony said as Pepper walked in from behind Friday. 

“Sorry, boss,” Friday said, and ducked out. 

Pepper tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and folded her arms across her chest, pacing the floor of Tony’s office. Her heels clicked across the ground as she avoided papers he had left strewn across the floor. 

“Oh, no,” Tony said, because if Pepper was nervous, then something was  _ wrong  _ wrong. 

“Tony—“ Pepper began, but he held up a hand. 

“If you’re about to tell me—“ Tony said. 

Pepper held up her hands in surrender. “Small mistake. Tiny mistake. I may have said you had one more representative on board than you have. Tiny.” 

“Tiny?” Tony groaned. “Do you know how long it took me to even get the amount that I really have? I pulled every last goddamn string, Pep, your reporters are going to—“

“I’ll fix it,” she promised, pausing her pace. “I’ll fix it, I will. But if you can try—“

“If there was anyone else I could get on board for this, I’d already have them,” Tony countered. He’d spent the half week wrangling representatives to back the drug thing. Pepper telling the press he had more support than he did was going to make what he had gotten look bad, which sucked, because if she had said it right, then it would have looked damn good. 

She looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” he sighed. “Maybe I can get Beck.” He already owed Beck, but the representative was a good guy, and would probably ideologically believe in the policy proposal anyways. “But tomorrow. And you better try to fix this, Pepper, because I’ve had a bad enough day as it is.” 

“You know I will,” Pepper said with a smile, and left his office. 

Tony groaned. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” 

“Tony?” Friday said from the doorway. 

“Jesus, this better be good, Friday, because I’m really not in the—“ Tony began, then broke off as he looked up. “Ah. Peter.” 

His new personal aide was looking at him with wide eyes, shoulders slightly hunched, biting his lip. Friday had already turned away and gone back to her desk. “If now’s not a good time, sir, I can—“

“No, now is fine, now is fine,” Tony said hurriedly. “There’s a—well, I’m in the chair, but you can sit on the couch. The part that’s free. Which is small.”

Peter complied, perching on the tiny edge of the couch that wasn’t covered in books. The pile had grown since Bruce had sat there, and there wasn’t enough room to sit, really. But Tony was pretty sure if he had gestured to a pit of lava for Peter to sit in, the guy would have done it. 

“So. Peter. I’m glad you’ve given up your lofty dreams of being a messenger in favor of something more realistic,” Tony said. “How was the rest of your day?” 

“It was—it was good, sir,” Peter said, folding his hands on his knees and looking around Tony’s disgusting office. “Your staff are—“

“Assholes. It’s okay, so am I. And so will you be, in no time.” 

Peter looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or run as fast as he could. He decided on a half-smile. “I hope not, sir.” 

Tony looked at the guy. Raised an eyebrow. “What did I tell you about calling me sir?” 

Peter sat up straighter. “Right. My bad. So, uh, personal aide. What exactly does this…” 

“Basically, you do whatever I need you to do. Write things. Call people. Talk to Senators and Representatives and pollsters. The job description is nice and vague.” He watched Peter carefully. The guy looked nervous. And, underneath that, definitely excited. Practically bouncing on his toes, although he was careful to hide it. 

“I feel I have to remind you I have a high school education,” Peter said after a minute.

“You sweat APs, man. They’re coming out of your...nose. You’re smart. Stop denying it, it doesn’t get you anywhere. Humility is overrated.” 

Peter faintly touched his nose. Tony could have laughed. 

“So. Why’d you accept?” 

“Pardon?” Peter said. 

Tony tossed a piece of balled up paper into the air. “The personal aide job. You didn’t seem too pumped about it at first. I was half afraid we’d lose you altogether to McDonald’s or, if you’re so set on using your  _ driver’s license,  _ Grubhub or something. Why’d you end up accepting?” 

Peter bit the inside of his cheek. “I...I mean, I don’t know if I’m qualified to do the job. But. If you have the chance to do something good, when you can  _ do  _ good things, and you don’t, and then bad things happen? They happen because of you.” 

Tony couldn’t help but grin. He did know how to pick them. “Well, I’m glad you said yes,” he said, and Peter grinned back. 

“Thanks. Uh. Anything you need now?” Peter said. 

Tony grinned. “Sleep. Or coffee, whichever happens first. And a way to get the American public to embrace my upcoming drug policy. But none of those things are things you can help me with. So. Read this,” he said, and threw Peter the thick briefing on his policy he had given the President, Bruce, Pepper, and Rhodey. “Make sure you understand it, because that’s priority one for the near future. Then go home, tell your aunt how awesome your day was. Oh, and Peter?” He said. 

Peter looked up from the packet of paper he was already scanning. “Yeah?” 

“Please get a better suit. That one looks like it’s from Goodwill.” 

  
  
  


When Tony got into the office the next day, it was clean. Completely clean.

His files were organized, the books that had been on the sofa were alphabetized on his bookshelf, and there was enough room on his desk that he would be able to use it as an actual desk. 

Peter was sitting on the couch, writing in the margins of the briefing packet. He hadn’t noticed Tony, yet, who looked over his new aide’s shoulder to see that the guy had already practically filled the pages with notes. 

“You don’t have to clean in here, you know,” Tony said finally, and sat down at his desk. 

Peter jumped. His briefing went flying onto the floor, and Tony winced, ready for papers to go flying everywhere. Which they didn’t, because of course Peter had stapled it. 

“Sorry, sir—Mr. Stark. But it was—“

“A landfill, so I’ve been told. And please, do not apologize for cleaning. You even got rid of the moth that was living on my spare copy of the Constitution,” he observed. 

“Only because I thought that might be, like, a federal crime. And the moth wasn’t harmed, don’t worry. And I read the briefing, I wasn’t putting off real work, it just...I thought it might be helpful.” 

“Very,” Tony remarked, and opened the drawer in his desk. Paper clips. A stapler. Tape. A note pad. Granola bars, still wrapped. No loose coffee grounds or old phone messages or ants. “When did you get in this morning? I thought I would be here before you.” 

Peter shrugged. “A little while ago.” He picked the briefing back off of the floor and put it back on his lap. “So, uh, do you want me to be in here, or—“

“Desk,” Tony said, snapping his fingers. “That’s what I forgot. You need a desk. I’ll get you one. Or you can get you one. Ted didn’t like desks. Do you like desks?” That had always been one of the less-good things about Ted. Instead of desks, he liked to walk around as he worked. Or sit on the ground, which was fine until Tony tripped over him. 

“I don’t have any particular feelings about desks, to tell you the truth.” 

“I’ll get you a desk,” Tony decided. “But not today. Today, I have to get a representative on board for my drug policy. Pepper—“

“Overshot,” Peter finished. “I noticed.” 

Tony looked up sharply. So Peter had done his research. “Yes. So, she’s going to do damage control, and we’re going to figure out who exactly our secret new supporter is in the House of Representatives. There are, as far as I can tell, three viable candidates.” 

Peter frowned. “Two.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think Calhoun is viable?” 

“Calhoun is a possibility. Mitchell isn’t, if that’s your third,” Peter replied evenly. 

He had really done his research. “What’s wrong with Mitchell?” Tony asked, and turned his chair to face Peter. God bless spinning chairs. “He’s been okay on reform in the past. Dependable, even.” 

“Yeah. In the past, he wasn’t running against a real contender for re-election. A real Republican contender. Who’s going to call him soft on crime, and he knows it, and crime has been on the rise in his district.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Tony said, narrowing his eyes. Because Peter had a point, a real point. A point Tony should have seen himself.

“Well, he wouldn’t. He’s trying to straddle. Be just central enough so his opponent can’t use the law and order whistle but not enough that he’ll lose you guys,” Peter said nonchalantly. As if he wasn’t saying something it should take at  _ least  _ a college degree to piece together. Or a modicum of experience. 

“Right,” Tony said. “Okay. So. Two. Calhoun and Beck. Beck’s a better bet, a good bet, even. He’s worked with us in the past, he’s good for it.” 

Peter shuffled, and didn’t say anything. 

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve Sherlock Holmes’d him, too,” Tony groaned. 

“Huh?” Peter said. “No. Uh, no. He’s...he’s probably your best bet.” But there was something in his tone, there. 

“You sure about that?” Tony said, arching an eyebrow, pulling the file he had on Beck out of his  _ organized filing cabinet.  _

Peter hesitated for a moment, but eventually offered a quick nod. “Definitely. Calhoun’s iffy but possible. Beck, I’m surprised you didn’t get him when you originally rounded them up. No offense, I mean,” he said quickly. 

Tony laughed. “None taken.” He looked back at the file on Beck, pulled the one on Calhoun, then called, “Friday!” 

Friday came into the office. “What’s up?” 

“I need a meeting with Calhoun and another one with Beck. ASAP.” 

“I’ll get you them today,” Friday nodded, and ducked out of the office. 

Tony grinned and turned to Peter. “You ready to wrangle?” 

Peter straightened. “I’m—I’m coming?” He asked. “I don’t want to impose—“

“You’re my personal aide, Peter. It’s not an imposition, it’s literally your job. Are firemen imposing when they hose down burning buildings? Do the homeowners come out and say,  _ wow, how rude? _ ”

Peter opened his mouth to say something. 

“Rhetorical. So. Here’s what’s happening today. The First Lady is giving some remarks on public school reform, so we’re trying to keep quiet and out of today’s news cycle, which won’t work but is a beautiful idea and one that  _ I  _ don’t want to personally be responsible for screwing up. The president is meeting with a bunch of children who are either dreadfully diseased or members of some choir or something, Congresswoman Wyatt is coming over to talk about mandatory minimums, and then we are wrangling. Good?” 

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“Not rhetorical,” Tony confirmed. 

“Good, then,” Peter said. “Congresswoman Wyatt is—“

“On our side, yes,” Tony said, standing up. “What time is it?” 

“Ten after seven,” Peter said. 

“Alright,” Tony said, “Let’s roll.” He strode out of his office, Peter hurrying behind him, and started walking to his first meeting of the day. 

“I can give a correction, but it’ll make you look bad,” Pepper, who was suddenly hurrying along beside him, said. 

Tony didn’t slow his pace. “It’s still up in the air. Ask me in six hours. I have to talk to two of my best friends first.” 

“Mitchell and Beck.” Pepper replied. “I have a press conference before then. If I don’t correct it immediately, and you don’t get either of them, it’ll look worse, Tony.” 

“Calhoun and Beck,” Tony corrected. “And I guess I’ll just have to get one of them, then, won’t I?” He said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Because Calhoun, realistically, was improbable. And Beck was...well, who knew what Beck was. He kept walking. 

“Pepper Potts. Press Secretary,” Pepper said, still walking, and stuck her hand out to shake Peter’s. 

“Peter Parker. Personal Aide,” Peter replied, and shook her head. 

“And Peter Piper picked a jar of pickled peppers. We can all do alliterations, you two aren’t special,” Tony said, and pushed through the door into the morning meeting. Peter and Pepper followed. Tony took a seat at the table, and Pepper sat next to him. Peter, he noticed, stayed standing, but Tony didn’t say anything. The guy seemed to have a bit of a complex with these chairs. 

“How’s keeping out of the news cycle going to go?” Tony asked Pepper. 

“Fantastic. All I have to do is keep anyone on the staff and the President himself from doing anything newsworthy, so. Easy peasy,” Pepper grinned. 

“I’m sure,” Tony replied dryly. 

The meeting went alright, all things considered, and it turned out it wasn’t diseased children or choir members coming to the White House later, it was  _ Girl Scouts,  _ and they would be bringing cookies, so Tony was going to have to make sure to get some of those. Or to get Friday to get him some, because then he wouldn’t even have to go near children, which was a terrifying prospect. 

“You like your first meeting?” He asked Peter as they walked out. 

“It was…exhilarating,” Peter replied honestly, hugging the several binders and few loose sheets of paper Tony had accumulated during the meeting. Once they’d gotten back to Tony’s office, Friday came up to the door. 

“I have a meeting for you at 9:45 with Representative Calhoun. That’s in an hour. You have a tight hour for that and then fifteen minutes to get to your meeting with Beck at 11:00, so both of those are actually before your meeting with Congresswoman Wyatt. Good?” 

“Beautiful. Stunning. You rock my world, Friday,” Tony said, and threw Calhoun’s file at Peter. “Read that. Read it again. This guy doesn’t know what’s coming to him.” 

“You got it,” Peter said, and opened the file. Tony was pretty sure Peter had already, in fact, read it, but that would only bring him to a third read, which couldn’t be a bad thing. Tony was more than a little stressed about this meeting. But it was fine. This was fine. 

He ran his hand through his head. This was fine. Mandatory minimums would be fixed and money would be shifted to recovery. He was a genius. He could do this. He didn’t need Steve freaking Rogers to believe in him. 

The hour passed too fast, and he and Peter were soon sitting in Calhoun’s office. 

“You already came to me about this, Tony, it’s a no can do,” Calhoun said, spreading his hands. “I wish I could, you know that.” Yeah, right. 

“You can, though,” Tony persisted, leaning forward. “Your base is the educated right. These aren’t people who will be scared off by a little bit of ‘soft on crime’ bullshit. If anything, you’ll pull a bit from the left and your numbers will go up, not down.” 

“I’m not worried about seeming hard or soft on crime. It’s the mandatory minimums. You can’t expect every person arrested to get a trial, it’s just not—“ 

“If you say feasible, I swear to god,” Tony warned. 

“Feasible,” Calhoun finished apologetically. 

“If I may, sir,” Peter said from beside Tony, clutching his notebook. “Arrests will go down. Channeling funds into recovery instead of building prisons will reduce long-term cycles of drug abuse so that, although there may be an influx in trials in the short-term, the numbers should  _ decrease  _ over time, not increase.” 

“That,” Tony said, pointing at Peter. 

“And that poses another problem. If there’s a decrease in prisons, then that’s an alarming financial loss for the state,” Calhoun countered. 

Frustration simmered in Tony’s chest. “At a certain point, you have to step back and recognize that maybe the people being  _ wrongfully imprisoned  _ matter more than the dollar signs!” He snapped. 

Calhoun raised an eyebrow. “Just because this is the hill you’ve decided you’ll die on doesn’t mean I have, too, Tony. My answer was and is no. I really am sorry, though. It’s a good policy.” 

“It’s a good—“ Tony growled, then cut himself off. “Great. Thank you. We’ll see you, Congressman.” 

“Tony—“ Calhoun began, standing up, but Tony was already out the door. As soon as they were out of the vicinity, Tony leaned against the wall. His heart was beating on the fast side, but he had ten minutes to spare. Plenty of time. He breathed slowly. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. 

“You okay?” Peter said hesitantly, still holding the clipboard close to his chest. 

“I hate stupid people,” Tony mumbled.

Peter smiled thinly. “Tough job, then.” 

“Ah, they’re everywhere,” Tony said. “Like McDonalds. Or Harry Potter fans. It’s okay. Beck is...less stupid, usually. You ready for round two? The stakes have  _ never been higher. _ ” 

Peter shifted on his feet and looked at the ground. “You know, I could get you a coffee, or something. While you meet with him.” 

Tony turned around so sharply that Peter’s eyes widened. 

“You tapping out on me, Peter?” He said. 

“No!” Peter said quickly. “No. Just not sure how…helpful I’ll be.” 

Did his aide really have such a low opinion of himself? Or was he just trying to get out of work? Tony rejected that idea, as Peter had come in at god-knows-what-time in the morning to  _ clean Tony’s office.  _ “Peter, you killed it in that last meeting. You’ll kill it in this one, too. You’ll be terribly helpful. Devastatingly helpful. You’ll make me feel bad, you’re being so helpful.” 

Peter bit his lip. “Just, if...I mean, I don’t mind just getting coffee. Or lunch? Are you hungry?” 

“Are you nervous?” Tony asked. “Don’t be. I’m not kidding. You were great in there. We’ll get lunch after. You’re coming to this meeting.”

Peter nodded. “Okay. Okay, great. Let’s go, then. Wouldn’t want to be late. So, Beck. Really left-wing, liberal guy, not too into the party establishment but he’s made a few friends on the hill, right? Why’d he say no to the policy?”

Tony cocked his head at Peter. For someone who hadn’t ever worked in politics, he sure knew the jargon—then again, maybe he just was a news junkie. He had wanted to work as a White House messenger, after all, which was neither rewarding nor well-paying.

“It doesn’t go far enough for him,” Tony sighed. “He’s big into prison abolition. Which I am too! Eventually. But I can’t actually pass that. I can pass this. And I’m of the camp that reform is better than nothing, but he’s worried that if we focus on reform, people won’t try to push for more radical change.” Tony signed and rubbed his forehead. “At least he has ideals and sticks to them. Easier to respect than a guy like Calhoun, who just wants to get re-elected.”

“Mm,” Peter said, noncommittal. He was probably nervous for the meeting. But there was no real way to get started in this business than to jump right into the fire, and Tony wasn’t about to let him off easy just because he had done well in the last meeting. 

He stopped when they reached a cracked open door labeled  _ Quentin Beck.  _ Tony walked in and waved to the secretary, who made no move to stop him, before going through the next door into Beck’s office. 

“Tony!” Beck said with his almost too-broad, white-toothed smile that Tony could never quite bring himself to like, reaching out to shake his hand. 

“Hi, Quentin. Nice to see you again. This is my new personal aide, Peter.” Tony stepped to the side because Peter had somehow ended up tucked behind him. 

Something flirted across Beck’s face for a moment; his smile nearly dropped, but then rebounded. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter,” he said, reaching out to shake Peter’s hand. 

Peter shook it quickly and dropped it. They would have to work on Peter’s handshake, Tony noted, before turning back to Beck. 

“Everything alright?” he asked. He hadn’t missed the odd moment, although he had no clue what it had stemmed from.

“Yeah. Just wondering if Ted finally had a heart attack from all the work you gave him, or…” Beck said, half-joking.

Ah, that made sense. Ted and Beck had had a bit of a rapport, hadn’t they? “No, no,” he laughed. “He’s on to bigger and better things. Less ethical things, mind you,” Tony said with a wink, “But then, Ted was always a bit centrist, wasn’t he?”

“To our chagrin,” Beck added with a chuckle. “So. I assume you’re here about the policy?” he asked, gesturing for Tony and Peter to have a seat and going to his desk to sit down as well. “Which, might I add, I’ve already given you my position on. But I was pretty sure you’d come and try to talk me over to the dark side.”

“We have cookies,” Tony said. “Actually, we do. And they’re Girl Scout cookies, so it’s really the good shit.”

Beck shook his head. “As much as I love samoa’s, the fact of the matter is, I run a very progressive platform. I’m not willing to stray from what I think is right to something that is  _ sort of  _ right, Tony.”

“I’m fighting mandatory minimums, now,” Tony countered, because that had been one of Beck’s qualms last time. “That’s on the ticket.”

Beck seemed to consider this. He leaned back in his chair. Leaned forward. Bit his lip. “Still,” he finally said. “It’s still petty reforms.”

“Petty reforms that will result in tangible change. It won’t fix everything, but it’ll help real people, and it’ll help them fast.”

Beck shook his head. “You know I’m considering it, Tony. But I need something in return.”

This wouldn’t be good. “I don’t have a lot of—“

“President Roger’s abortion roll-out. Planned Parenthood needs more money.”

Tony groaned. “It’s already a practically impossible piece of legislature. Giving more money to Planned Parenthood—“ It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. But Rogers would have his ass if he promised this. 

“Is the right thing to do and you know it. You’re a good man, Tony. And the people who are already supporting this bill aren’t going to back down from a couple extra dollars.”

“They just might,” Tony said, thinking about the tenuous holds they had on the purple districts’ representatives. “But fine. Not much more, mind you. But...a considerable amount. And you’ll vote for my bill when it’s in the house?”

“Done and done,” Beck said with a smile. “I’m not sure which of us just got played.”

“Definitely me,” Tony sighed. “But at least we’re both doing the right thing, ostensibly. Thanks, Quentin. Really. I needed to witness a little moral fortitude today.”

“You’re welcome in my office anytime,” Beck said, and stood, spreading his hands in a welcoming gesture.

Peter pushed back his chair quickly and stood as well. He was in a hurry to get out, then. He hadn’t even spoken in the meeting...Right on cue, Tony’s stomach growled. Yeah, the kid was probably hungry too, come to think of it; Tony hadn’t seen him eat since he’d gotten to the office, and Tony had gotten there later than him. 

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Quentin,” Tony said with a wave, and left the office. Once they’d left, he turned to Peter. “Hungry?” he asked.

But apparently, it was Peter’s turn to freak out. He was leaning against the wall, just like Tony had been less than an hour ago, eyes closed, lips tight.

“You good?” Tony said. “Breathing?”

“Yeah,” Peter said quickly. “I—I’ve just never had such a...I think, the gravity of the job is catching up, with, with me.”

“Ah. Lives in the balance and all that?” Tony asked, to which Peter offered a sharp nod. “Yeah, I get that. The problem is, there’s no perfect solution. But there are good ones, honest ones, and you’re helping those happen, okay? One of the good ones and all that.” As much as he had his own issues with anxiety, he wasn’t very good at helping other people with theirs, so instead, he opted to stand awkwardly a few feet away from Peter and watch him. Yeah, good job, Tony. Super helpful. Just stare at him as he has an anxiety attack. A technique proven to work.

Peter nodded again and eased himself off of the wall. “Sorry, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony shook his head. “No worries, kid. It’s a big job. You work up an appetite yet?”

“Yeah. I...I could eat,” Peter replied.

“Alright,” Tony said with a grin. “The cafeteria’s shit and we have extra time, so let’s go back to my office and we’ll get some takeout.” He clapped his hands together. “I’m thinking Thai.”

The two went back to his office—placing a hefty order with the Thai place on the way, which Peter offered to pay for—an offer Tony subsequently refused because _ kid, seriously? Up until recently, I was literally a billionaire.  _ Back in his office—which he still was shocked when he walked into it, unused to it being clean—Tony pulled up his information on Congresswoman Wyatt and sat on the couch. Peter hovered for a moment, glancing at the couch and the desk and the floor. No, not the floor. Please not the floor.

“It’s a big couch, Peter,” Tony said, even shifting to the side to make it obvious there was room. 

Peter shook his head as if clearing something from it. “Right,” he said, and proceeded to sit as far as he possibly could from Tony while still technically sitting on the couch. 

Tony let it go. “Congresswoman Wyatt. You read about her?” He asked, because he was pretty sure he’d mentioned her in the briefing. 

“Mandatory minimums, right?” Peter said hesitantly, looking at the packet. “On our side?” 

“Exactly. She’s going to seem soft. Don’t let her get you twisted. She’s very smart and she’s been around longer than most, which is saying something, because some of these guys have been here since America decided not to help with the French Revolution.”

Peter nodded. Tony sincerely hoped the kid knew he was kidding. 

“She likes people who are polite and civil. So she hates me and she’ll take to you immediately. That doesn’t mean you need to be quiet, just throw in ma’am here and there, got it?” 

“Absolutely, Mr. Stark. Throw her in where?” He asked, eyes wide. 

Tony paused. “Uh, no,” he chuckled, awkward. “I meant—“ 

“It was a joke,” Peter said. 

A joke. Tony laughed. “Good!” He said. “Great. I was getting worried you didn’t know what those were.” Thank god, he thought. The kid had a sense of humor, even if it was a bit...unique. 

Peter blushed, but didn’t say anything.

Just then, someone from the doorway said, “Thai!” 

Tony turned around hungrily. “Thank you, Frid—“ he began, but it was Pepper standing in the doorway with two plastic bags in her hands. “Pepper!” 

“Tony,” Pepper said, placing the bags down on the coffee table in front of Peter and Tony. “Peter. I can’t believe you ordered Thai food without me.” She clucked and shook her head. 

“You can have some of mine, Ms. Potts—“ Peter offered. 

Pepper waved him off. “That’s sweet, really. Thank you,” she said. “I have to run, though. Just came in here to—“ She stopped short. “Hold on.”

Tony grinned. “Notice something different?” 

“You cleaned his office,” Pepper said, looking at Peter. 

“Hey!” Tony complained. “I’m a perfectly capable man. How do you know I didn’t clean it?”

“Because the last time you even tried to clean your office was when a family of pigeons moved in, Tony, and even then, you gave up after twenty minutes. He’s not making you clean, is he? That’s not part of your job description.” 

Peter blushed. “I know,” he said. “It just seemed like…” 

“Don’t get me wrong, Peter, it’s wonderful. I’m impressed. Anyways. I have to run, I just came to admonish Tony about ordering without me and to ask him if I have to give that correction later, or if his meetings went well.” 

Tony pulled out a take-out box of Pad Thai and broke the cheap set of chopsticks apart, digging out a bite before saying, “Got it covered, Pep, thanks. My best friend and I came to an agreement.” 

“Beck?” She asked, already halfway out the door. 

Tony nodded. “Have fun making no noise and pretending you don’t exist!” Tony called after her as she left, then turned to Peter. “We don’t really have any control over the news cycle, but, for some reason, the First Lady’s staff thinks we do, so whenever Dr. Carter is doing something particularly exciting, they ask us to stay out of it. Those are usually the days when President Rogers accidentally bikes into a tree or steps on a dog’s foot, and so Dr. Carter’s staff hates us. Particularly Pepper, just because she’s the face of the news, which indicates such a laughably bad understanding of how the government works that I almost have to pity them.” 

“Who’s on her staff?” Peter asked. 

“No one at all relevant,” Tony said with a shrug. “Hey. Dig in,” he added, gesturing to the Thai, because Peter had a set of chopsticks on his lap but hadn’t eaten anything. “You can pay next time, if it’s really putting you off.” 

Peter acquiesced and took a container. Once it was in his hands, he ate quickly, even faster than Tony did. “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he said through a mouthful of rice. “Oh, man, this is really good.”

“One of the few joys of being a government official,” Tony quipped, and Peter grinned. “Although back when I was a billionaire, I had a personal chef, so. Not that joyful.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows. “That does sound like a pretty nice set-up,” he said. 

Tony nodded wistfully. “It was. He made the  _ best  _ grilled cheeses...it’s okay, he has a restaurant now here in D.C.—it doesn’t deliver, but it’s a great place to meet people you’re trying to impress. Republican Senators never fail to lose their heads when they find out I know the chef, it’s, like, a complex or something.” 

“To be fair, I’d be pretty impressed, and I’m not a Republican Senator.”

“Thank god for that,” Tony replied, because if this was Peter Parker as a personal aide straight out of high school, Peter Parker with a law degree and a seat in the Senate would be virtually unstoppable. And would be, one day, if Tony had anything to say or do about it, but hopefully as a member of the Democratic or Green Party. 

A knock sounded from the other side of the door. 

“Come in!” Tony called. Rhodey entered the office. 

“Heard you had Thai food,” Rhodey said. “And Beck.” 

Tony groaned. “One day,” he said, pointing his finger. “One day, Pepper Potts will stop telling everyone everything about me.” 

“Not today,” Rhodey said, and grabbed a box of takeout. “I’m Colonel James Rhodes, by the way,” he said to Peter. 

“Peter Parker. I’m Mr. Stark’s new—“

“Personal aide, so I’ve heard. And I resent not being consulted, by the way, Tony, but you seem good—I mean, I’m assuming you’re the one that cleaned in here, so power to you. So, how’d you get Beck?” He asked Tony. 

“Made some promises that our good President is going to hate,” Tony said with a sigh. “Likelihood of him kicking my ass?” 

“The President?” Rhodey said. “As soon as he gets out of office, your ass is grass.” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn to say that, the playground?  _ My ass is grass.  _ That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“It’s a well known expression,” Rhodey countered, snagging Tony’s chopsticks right from his hand. Tony glared, but didn’t take them back. 

“Still stupid,” he said instead, which came out petulant. “Doesn’t even make sense. Anyways. That’s why you get to tell him! More money to Planned Parenthood for his abortion bill. Have fun.” 

Rhodey groaned. “No way,” he said, but set the Pad Thai down back down on the coffee table, chopsticks balanced on the top of the container, and left. 

“And that’s how you get other people to do your work for you,” Tony said to Peter. “You should probably be taking notes. This is good stuff.” When Peter moved as if to take a pen out of his pocket, Tony added, “I’m kidding. A joke.”

“Oh,” Peter said, blushing, and relaxed. 


	3. Chapter Three

Peter had been working for Tony for three weeks now, and they had been three pretty incredible weeks. After that first day, in which he had had to spend a whole hour in a room with Quentin Beck, a man he would have preferred to never spend another minute with in his life, he had been nervous. He’d gone home a wreck, had barely kept it together for the rest of the day. 

But since then had been smooth sailing—take-out and deep delves into policy and meetings with President of the United States of America Steve Rogers, who, apparently, Tony alternated between calling Spangles and Stars and Stripes behind his back. Even, occasionally, Captain America. Beck had barely been brought up in conversation, although, every so often, Tony expressed how impressed he was that Peter had never served in political office before and still had the level of knowledge he did, and Peter felt so guilty, because, of course, he had served as a political advisor before. Tony just didn’t know it. 

And he wouldn’t know it. He couldn’t know it, and he didn’t know it. And that was fine. Because Peter wouldn’t tell him, and Beck certainly wouldn’t tell him, and no one else knew. So Peter was in the clear. His secret was safe. 

So his biggest problem, instead of being Beck, was Tony calling the leader of the free world ‘Spangles’. To his face, of course, it was Mr. President. Which was what Peter called him when he wasn’t there, too, because he didn’t want to be fired. Or imprisoned. 

He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be put in prison for calling the President ‘spangles’, but the bylaws were confusing enough that he wasn’t willing to risk it. 

Today, Tony came into the office and, right away, Peter could tell he was anxious. 

It had taken him a little while to be able to read Tony—the man was, at times, intense, fiery, and passionate, and at other times emotionless and thin-lipped—but Peter was pretty good at reading his boss now; right now, Tony was more focused on reading whatever papers had been left in front of him, he was a little quieter, he was a little more distracted: these were all things that, Peter had figured out, pointed to him being nervous, although he would certainly never tell anyone that. Another thing that Peter had learned while in Tony’s employ: the chief of staff didn’t like showing emotion. Or, didn’t like showing the emotion he was actually feeling. 

And, of course, today was the day the House would vote on the drug bill. So anxiety was all too reasonable. Peter was feeling it too, and he’d only been working on the bill for three weeks. Tony had written the thing. 

“You have the votes, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quietly, putting Tony’s coffee on his desk in front of him. Black without sugar, and in a wildly large mug filled to the brim. Peter had started bringing Mr. Stark his coffee two weeks ago, and he honestly didn’t think the man really noticed—just thought the coffee appeared on his desk when he needed it. Sure enough, the Chief of Staff only grunted and took a sip of the coffee. “It’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t,” Stark said immediately, fingers flitting over the copy of the bill Peter had left on his desk. “Don’t do that. I don’t celebrate until it’s done.” 

Peter backed off, sitting at his desk that they’d only gotten into the office a week prior. “Got it,” he said, and combed through the copy of the bill he’d put on his own desk, looking for mistakes he knew weren’t there. “Anything else on the agenda today?” 

“Zilch. Nada. Not a thing,” Stark groaned, and thumped his head on the desk. “I thought it’d be a great idea to clear my schedule. I swear to god, if I could murder my past self…” 

“Isn’t that the plot of Back to the Future?” Peter remarked. 

“With less fucking my own mom, yeah,” Tony replied. Peter felt a blush creep onto his cheeks. He probably should have expected that. “But maybe Spangles would finally think I was doing a good job if I invented goddamn time travel.” 

“Hold on,” Peter said. “You’re Marty McFly in this scenario. Not whatever the scientist guy is named.” Tony opened his mouth, presumably to tell Peter the name of the scientist guy, but Peter continued. He, too, was learning to interrupt. And how to not get interrupted. “And the President does think you’re doing a good job. He definitely doesn’t say it enough, but he just as equally definitely thinks it.” 

“Thanks, kid,” Tony said, running a hand through his hair. “That’s nice.”

AKA shut up, probably, because as much as Tony liked to sing his own praises, Peter had noticed he got awkward and hesitant when someone else did the same, and tried to move off of the topic as soon as possible. Which had only led Peter to try and do it more. 

The rest of the day was equally filled with short sentences and rebukes as the two of them became more and more anxious. In the afternoon, Tony took to pacing the office, which led Peter to leave and get more coffee to get out of his hair, but the coffee only led to more invigorated pacing. By the time evening came and the vote was near, both Tony and Peter were staring at the TV, ready, even though there were still twenty minutes to go. 

“Tony?” Dr. Banner said from the door. He held up a bottle of champagne. “I’m here to watch with you guys. Pepper will be in in a minute, and Rhodey’s on his way.” 

Tony glared at the champagne bottle as if it was a pistol. “If you open that, you’re dead, Bruce.” 

Dr. Banner held his free hand up in surrender. “It’ll wait. But I’m sure we’ll get to open it.” 

Tony muttered something that sounded awfully like shove your champagne bottle up your ass. Peter choked. Dr. Banner turned to him. 

“Peter. How’re you doing?” He asked. 

“I’m good, sir,” Peter said, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them. “Uh. Nervous, definitely. But good.” 

Dr. Banner gave him a sympathetic look. “First House vote on a bill you’ve worked on, yeah? Well, there’ll be plenty more. And plenty that you’ll win less easily than this one.” He glanced at Tony. “I mean, maybe. Who knows. Up in the air. Not jinxing anything,” he added cautiously. 

“Thanks for that,” Tony snapped, and ran a hand through his hair. 

Pepper walked in. “Who’s excited to—“ she broke off after Tony glared at her and Dr. Banner quickly shook his head. “Alright, this is a bit more somber than I was expecting. That’s fine.” She took a seat on the armrest of the couch. Peter stood quickly. 

“You can sit on the couch, Ms. Potts. I can sit on the ground.” 

Pepper waved him off. “There’s no need to pull a Ted. Sit,” she said, not moving from her seat on the armrest, and Peter sat back down. She smiled at him kindly and he offered a hesitant smile back. 

He was now sandwiched between Dr. Banner and Tony, and was more than a little uncomfortable. But hey, at least Beck wasn’t here. And wouldn’t be, because he was going to be on the screen, casting a vote hopefully in their favor. 

There was another knock on the door, and Rhodey walked in, trailed by Natasha Romanoff, a red-headed, whip-smart woman Peter had met two weeks ago. He still wasn’t sure what she did, actually, because she had told him everything and, true to form, he’d seen her doing everything from press conferences to security, but he liked her. 

“Tony’s going to kill either of you if you say anything fun, so watch out,” Dr. Banner said quickly. 

“I’d like to see him try,” Natasha smirked, and leaned against the doorframe. Peter was pretty sure she wasn’t kidding, and was also pretty sure that if she wanted, Natasha could literally kill all of them with only office supplies right there, right then, and not get caught. “What are you worried about, Stark? It’s settled.” 

Tony growled in the back of his throat at the optimism, but didn’t say anything. Suddenly, the TV screen switched to a grainy image of the House chambers. “Shit,” he said. The room fell silent. 

Peter’s stomach crawled as he watched the yeses, and the nos, climb up. Beck was one of the first people to vote, and did end up voting yes. Peter had gotten pretty good at not flinching at his face or the sound of his voice, an accomplishment he was pretty proud of, actually. Still, the nos were ratcheting up fast. They were pretty sure they had the votes, sure, but their margin wasn’t large. If just a couple representatives changed their minds last minute, they’d be fucked. 

But no one changed their mind. As soon as they reached the number of votes they needed, Dr. Banner looked to Tony, who grinned back, and popped the champagne. It spilled all over the carpet. Happiness ballooned in Peter’s chest. Their hard work had paid off. The bill was passed—mandatory minimum reductions and all. 

And he had done good work. He had helped. 

Even Peter got a glass (he didn’t mention that they were literally breaking the law in the White House and no one seemed to remember he was under twenty one). He sipped it slowly, and they soon enough poured him a second, magicking a second bottle from somewhere. By halfway into his second glass, he was getting a little tipsy. He hadn’t eaten much, after all, and coffee does not a meal make. 

Just then, Friday stuck her head in the door. “Tony, I hate to break up the party,” she said. Pepper had already left, as had Rhodey and Nat, so it was just Dr. Banner, Tony, and Peter in the room, but the party hadn’t left. At least, not until they looked at Friday’s face, which was bunched up in a grimace. 

“Oh no. What is it?” 

“It’s the Supreme Court nominee. You said to tell you if I found anything that could be used against him during the confirmation process,” she said carefully. 

“Oh, god, what is it?” Tony groaned. “Spit it out.” 

“It’s not big—it’s just a quote on a book jacket, really, from twenty years ago—“ She began, looking pained, wringing her hands. 

“Friday,” Tony interrupted, with a warning look. 

“It’s not clear that he believes that the right to privacy is in the constitution,” she said finally. Meaning, it seemed like he actively didn’t believe that the right to privacy was guaranteed in the constitution. 

That was bad. Tony set his glass down on the table. Looked up at the ceiling. Looked down at the ground. Then clapped his hands once. “Okay. The work is never over. Friday, please get me that book jacket immediately. Peter, please do some digging and try to find anything to contradict that, because if he doesn’t believe in the right to privacy, then we’re absolutely goddamn fucked. It’s going to be a late night.” 

Peter nodded and pulled up his computer. Deep dive time. He tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to try to shake the champagne out of his head, once, twice. The light, fizzling buzz remained, though, as did the warmth in his cheeks. 

“Bruce, it was nice to see you. Now get the hell out of here, I have work to do. And Fri?” 

“What’s up, boss?” 

“Coffee? For me and Peter. We may have…” Friday left with a nod, and Tony turned to Peter. “Hold on.” 

Peter looked up at him. “Yeah?” 

“I gave you champagne!” Tony said. “You little shit.” 

Peter grinned apologetically. “I honestly didn’t think you’d figure it out.” 

“That’s never happening again. In fact, even when you’re twenty one, you don’t get champagne now. I’m going to get Spangles to illegalize drinking just for you. See how you feel about tricking me after that.”

“I didn’t trick you, Mr. Stark. I just...neglected to say anything.” 

Tony groaned. “Fine. Fine. You’re still dead, but I have bigger fish to fry at the moment. Send me anything you find. I have calls to make and a President to warn,” he said, and strode out of the office, leaving Peter on the couch to go back to his deep-dive. 

After twenty minutes, Friday brought him a cup of coffee. Which, combined with the alcohol, only made his head more achy and strange. After a few hours of not finding anything, he was ready to turn in and try again the next day, but he wasn’t sure he could drive. 

Tony wouldn’t mind if he fell asleep on the couch, right? It seemed so comfortable. Just for like, twenty minutes, and then he would keep looking into the Supreme Court nominee. . It was nearly eleven pm—Peter was pretty sure he’d left and forgotten all about Peter, as he often did. Friday was definitely gone. 

It couldn’t hurt, he decided, closing his laptop and curling up on the couch. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to @atnuka for pointing out i’d copied and pasted the same chapter twice!!!!

Tony was in the Oval Office having the worst time of his life. 

President Rogers was staring him down, for one. “You said this quote was taken over a decade ago. How can we be certain that he hasn’t changed his mind?” Steve reasoned. 

Tony leaned back on the couch, staring at the eagle on the carpet before looking back at Steve. “We can’t be certain,” he replied. “That’s why we have to talk to him about it. I’ve put my personal aide on the job of trying to figure out evidence to the contrary, Mr. President, but he hasn’t told me anything. If this guy is against the right to privacy—“

“Then us nominating him would be shooting ourselves in the foot. I’m aware,” Steve cut him off, running his hands over his face tiredly. For a moment, Tony was insanely glad he wasn't the President—at the end of the day, whatever happened, Tony wasn’t the most accountable guy in the room.

He quickly got over that, though, because he was pretty sure—if not for the fact that he had multiplie sex tapes out there and there were photos of him snorting cocaine—he would be a much better President than Steve goddamn Rogers. At the beginning of the presidency, he had been sad. They had been such good friends during the campaign, after all. 

They were still friends, though. There was just tension between them, tension born from Tony being far more liberal than Steve would ever be, while simultaneously coming from a much more wealthy background than Steve had. The kind of tension that only arose once you tried changing America together. 

“So you need to set up a meeting with him. I’ll be there. I’ll make sure we’re subtle enough when we ask, but, honestly, the guy knows he’s going to be vetted, he knows his beliefs are going to come into question. I don’t see the problem with just directly asking him—

“A completely partisan question?” Steve finished dryly. 

“It’s not completely partisan!” Tony objected. “The right to privacy is an interpretation of the constitution, not petty politics. It’s been up for debate as long as the fourteenth amendment has.” 

“Be that as it may,” Steve said, slowly, as if Tony was a goddamn  _ idiot,  _ “Currently, it is partisan, given the weight it has on the abortion debate.” 

Tony sighed. “You’re going to have to talk to him about it, and you know it,” he said finally, giving Steve a look. “Either you accept that now, or you wait until the confirmation and find out he’s not as much on  _ our side  _ as you thought and then, badabing badaboom, you’re a one term President because your democratic base thinks you purposefully nominated someone for the Supreme Court who doesn’t believe in the right to an abortion. So. What do you say? Can I  _ please  _ set up a meeting with the guy to figure this out before shit hits the eagle-embossed fan?” He said. 

Steve sighed. “Fine. Make the call. But when he comes in here offended, I expect you to have a good response.”

_ As always,  _ Tony almost said, but refrained. Instead, he thanked the President and left the Oval Office, on the way back to his own office. 

Predictably, Friday wasn’t there, so he took out his own cell phone and left a message from the Supreme Court nominee to please, if he could, have a meeting with Tony in person or over Skype sometime in the next two days concerning his interpretation of the constitution. Once he hung up the phone and entered his actual office, though, he stopped pacing and stood still. 

Peter was lying on his couch, fast asleep. 

Tony cursed himself. He had stupidly assumed Peter would go home when he was tired enough, but he obviously should have known better, because, a) as far as he could tell, Peter pulled 6am to 11pm shifts every day, and, b), he never went home before Tony did. And, of course, c), he had given the kid alcohol, and Peter was responsible enough that he would probably have decided not to drive on one-and-a-half glasses of champagne. 

“Peter?” He tried, because the lights were going to go out and security was going to decrease and he wasn’t about to leave this kid sleeping on the couch, even if that meant he had to drive him to wherever he lived. The kid didn’t respond. “Peter?” He tried again. 

Still, nothing. The kid was sleeping so peacefully on the couch. Tony almost felt bad trying to disturb his rest.

But there was nothing for it. He reached out and shook the kid’s arm, hand around his bicep. “Peter—“ he started, but there was no need to keep pushing.

The kid shot up, wide-eyed, and scrambled to the far end of the couch. His breathing was heavy immediately, and his eyes on Tony were dark and tinted with something that looked like  _ fear.  _

Tony backed up immediately. Had the kid been having a bad dream? “You fell asleep on the couch,” he said quickly, because he knew when he was having nightmares, sometimes even when he woke up, he couldn’t remember where he was.

“I—you—“ Peter’s eyes looked around wildly, for a moment, unseeing, then softened on Tony’s. “Mr. Stark,” he said, after a moment. He swallowed and furrowed his brow, as if trying to make sense of the situation. Which was probably exactly what he was doing. “You...I fell asleep on the couch,” he figured out finally. He was still pressed against the back of the couch, arms crossed over his stomach; hadn’t seen fit to move from the defensive position, apparently. It left a bad taste in Tony’s mouth, for obvious reasons, because the last place the kid should be scared was in his own office, but, hey, he had nightmares, too. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I thought you might like a ride home,” Tony offered, making no move to be closer to Peter. “Because of the champagne. And the whole sleeping on the couch thing.”

Peter bit his lip and didn’t move from his position on the other end of the couch. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “That—that would be nice, thank you.” 

Tony held his hands up, and held back a sigh of relief when Peter relaxed, crossed his legs, stopped looking at Tony as if he were the Russian ambassador come to talk about nuclear war. “I have a car,” Tony said. “And I’m not even tipsy, after the evening I’ve had. You good?” He asked, a question Peter asked him regularly, a question he hadn’t had to ask Peter since that second meeting they had where Peter had been overwhelmed by the weight of the job. Was that what his nightmares were about, if that was what had happened? The job? Tony certainly had enough of those. Dreams where he had fucked up, where people died and it was all his fault. 

Of course, he reminded himself, the kid had had an even more tragic backstory than he had. Out of curiosity, Tony had looked up the mugging of the kid’s uncle, Ben, on the police database. Sure enough, Peter Parker had been listed as a witness. Nineteen years old. 

That was enough to give someone nightmares. 

“Um—yes, sir. Mr. Stark. I’m good. A ride would be good,” he added, looking askance. Uncomfortable, Tony noted, and so opted for a nod, packing up his briefcase. To be entirely fair, he would be uncomfortable, too, if he had fallen asleep on the couch and someone on the staff—not to mention his boss—had seen him having a nightmare. 

Not that Tony was judging. But Peter didn’t seem to know that, based on how out-of-his-skin he was. 

“Alright, then,” Tony said, cautious. “Let’s head out.” 

Peter nodded silently, packed his laptop in his backpack that leaned against his desk, and slung the back over his shoulder. His shoulders were hunched and he wasn’t looking at Tony, but Tony chalked that up to embarrassment from falling asleep on the couch and having nightmares—again, embarrassment that was unwarranted, but embarrassment that Tony would have, too, in his position.

Tony stood by the door, gestured for Peter to go ahead of him. Peter did so, giving the widest possible berth between them. Tony winced as the kid’s shoulder hit the door frame on the way out, but neither of them said anything. 

The walk to Tony’s car was equally silent. Once Peter had climbed in the passenger seat, though, and both of the doors had shut, Peter spoke.

“I’m sorry for—for falling asleep on the couch. I honestly thought you were gone, and I’d already drunk and didn’t want to drive while, um, inebriated. But I probably should have gotten a taxi. Or something.” 

Tony waved him off, fiddling with the seat warmers. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ve done it more than once.” He reached across from him and grabbed the back of Peter’s seat so he could pull out of his parking space, noting that Peter moved away from his hand as he did so. “But kid, you know you can pull, like, normal hours, right? Well, not normal. But more normal than whatever the hell you’re doing.”

Peter shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t have anything better to do,” he said. “Did you figure out anything about the, uh…”

“Nominee?” Tony groaned. “We’re going to have to set up a meeting with him, definitely. And maybe find a new nominee. Unless you found something,” he added, raising an eyebrow, but the kid just shook his head. 

“Nothing helpful,” he confirmed. “Does the President have a short list of other people?” He asked after a moment. 

“Spangles...well, he’s not the most popular in the Senate right now, and this candidate was going to really unite them. Any of the others he likes...are less well-liked by Congress. So, we’ll see, I guess.” 

Peter made some noncommittal sound. He was still subdued, Tony observed, but that might just be the combination of tipsiness and the fact that he just woke up from his nap. Either way, Tony didn’t say anything about it as he drove the kid home. 

When they pulled up in front of Peter’s apartment building—a decidedly less nice apartment building than Tony lived in, that was for sure, with its crumbling stairs and a couple of windows on the ground floor even boarded up—Tony made a move as if to park the car. 

Peter looked at him quickly. “Uh, it’s okay. I can just—hop out,” he said, but Tony shook his head. 

“It’s okay. I’ll park, get your drunk ass inside, meet your Aunt, sound fun?” 

Okay, he had ulterior motives. Pepper and him had started a betting pool about whether or not Peter’s “Aunt May” really existed, and if Tony could get a photo of her as proof, then he had a lot of money to gain. More money if he was  _ in  _ the photo, bet by courtesy of Rhodey, who had entered the pool as well. 

Peter unbuckled his seat belt. “I mean—you don’t have to, I should probably just—“

“Nah, c’mon, let’s go, kid,” Tony said. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her about the champagne, if she’s a hard-ass like that,” he added. 

“She’s not…” Peter began, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine. Let’s go.” 

Tony grinned and pulled his car to a stop (trying not to think about how nice it was and how certain he was it would be stolen by the time he got back to it, judging on the state of the neighborhood). He got out of the car and followed Peter, who led him up the crumbling stairs and into the building. 

“We, uh,” he said, shifting on his feet. “There’s no elevator. So if you don’t want to walk up the stairs, then you don’t have to come in—“

“Stairs are good. A workout!” Tony said. “Exercise. I love it.” He did  _ not  _ love it, but he  _ did  _ love winning bets and general financial gain. But seriously, the kid didn’t even have an elevator? Did most apartment buildings not have elevators? Tony had only ever been in nice ones, he realized. He jogged up the stairs and Peter followed him with a sigh. A couple of floors up, Peter pulled out his ring of keys and unlocked an apartment door. 

“Peter?” A voice from inside called. “You’re late again.”

“Sorry, Aunt May,” Peter called, closing the door behind Tony. “Uh—we have a—“

A woman—a really hot woman, younger than Tony had been picturing, but that was besides the point right now because he probably shouldn’t hit on his personal aide’s aunt—walked out of a doorway and stopped short at the sight of Tony. “Tony Stark,” she said, slowly. “Peter?” She said, turning to him for an explanation, a hand on her hip. 

Peter groaned, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Uh, yeah. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you I didn’t get the messenger job.” 

What?

“What?” Peter’s aunt said, echoing Tony’s thoughts. “Then where have you been all day? If you’re selling drugs, Peter—“

“I’m not selling drugs!” Peter said immediately, his voice going high-pitched and nervous. “I just...I may have gotten a job as Mr. Stark’s personal aide.”

Tony shook himself out of his stupor. “Hi. Tony Stark, White House Chief of Staff,” he said, sticking out his hand to shake. 

May did not take it. “Yeah, I know who you are,” she said, eyes narrowing, and then turned back to Peter. 

“It’s fine,” Peter said quickly. “Don’t—I’m fine.” 

Tony wasn’t sure what was happening, but there was clearly some conversation going on that he hadn’t been invited to. Aunt May was still looking at him with her eyes narrowed, and Peter was, in turn, looking at his aunt pleadingly. 

“I have to say,” Tony said, to break the silence, and then immediately regretting it. “I kind of thought Pete would be excited to tell you about his promotion. In fact, as far as I was aware, he already had.” Yeah, great job, Tony, talk about yourself. That’ll win her over for sure. 

May’s lips thinned for a moment as she glanced at Peter and then back at Tony. Yeah, Tony was definitely missing something. After a few stiff moments of silence, however, her shoulders relaxed.

“Well, he’s always been a big fan of yours,” she said, finally, and didn’t that make Tony grin. 

“A fan of mine?” He said. “I’m a fan of his. He basically single-handedly got this drug bill passed that I’ve been working on for god knows how long.” 

“Not really,” Peter mumbled. “I mostly just get his coffee.” 

Tony looked at him. “You don’t get my coffee,” he said, his tone more than a little accusatory. That wasn’t Peter’s job. 

“What did you think, it just appeared on your desk all the time?  _ The Shoemaker and the Elves  _ is a nice story, Mr. Stark, but I don’t think there are actually little elves in the White House looking to help you out.” 

Tony furrowed his brow. “You know, that would’ve been a really great moment for you if you hadn’t brought elves into it. Before, I looked stupid. Now, you just look like a nerd who likes elves.” Then he remembered that Peter’s aunt was watching. “Ah, a smart nerd who likes elves. And who has a cooler job than bringing coffee.” He winced. “This is going badly, isn’t it. I promise I don’t usually bully your nephew.” 

May crossed her arms. “It could be worse,” she said. “And I have to agree, Peter, you really lost me on the _ Shoemaker and the Elves  _ bit.” 

Peter shrugged. “It’s a good story. A feel-good classic.” 

“You’re really sticking with this thing. This is the hill you’re dying on,” Tony said. 

“What do you have against the  _ Shoemaker and the Elves? _ ” Peter asked seriously. 

Tony just shook his head. “May—it was very nice meeting you. I hope we’ll see each other again sometime. Peter—I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Congrats on the drug bill.” He waved quickly and left. 

Only when the door shut behind him did he realize he had forgotten to get photographic proof of the aunt’s existence. 


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as Tony left, Peter turned to his aunt. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry you—“

Aunt May crossed her arms. “You shouldn’t have lied to me, Peter,” she said, voice hard. Peter looked at the ground. He knew he shouldn’t have; he had felt insanely guilty every time she asked him about the messenger job and he made up some inane story, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her and to have this discussion. So he’d just kept going. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his throat constricting. 

Aunt May sighed, then uncrossed her arms and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, drawing him into a hug. “I’m not mad, Peter. I’m just…”

“I know,” Peter said. He’d seen her after Beck. She’d felt guilty for no reason at all. It wasn’t as if any of it was her fault. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said again. 

She tightened her hold on him. “Stark—he’s not—“

“He’s not like Beck,” Peter confirmed. “He hasn’t...he hasn’t tried anything. And he won’t. I don’t think he, I don’t think he would.”

May pulled out of the hug. “Okay. If he does, tell me, and I will kill him.” 

Peter nodded. He wondered briefly if he should tell her about seeing Beck, but they hadn’t interacted since his first day, so he didn’t think there was any reason to freak her out unnecessarily. 

Also, he didn’t really want to talk about it. 

“You need to come home sooner,” Aunt May said, switching the conversation topic. “You aren’t getting enough sleep.” 

“Okay,” Peter acquiesced, although he was pretty sure that there was no way that was going to happen any time soon, not with this nominee problem and whatever else Tony and him had to do, which seemed to be a lot, all the time. 

“Did you eat?” His aunt asked. He shook his head. 

“ _ Peter, _ ” she reprimanded, and they walked to the kitchen together. 

  
  


When Peter got into the office the next day, Tony was there before him. That had never happened before. Before he could even say something, as he was putting his bag down, Tony started talking. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m as shocked as you are. But Bruce talked to our guy for the Supreme Court last night—he’s in California, not Bruce, the guy, and so time zones are all off—and he definitely doesn’t support the right to privacy. So. We’re looking into other people, which means we have to romance some Senators into supporting a more liberal candidate. A couple of them are trying to get this, ah, American Youth yadayada program up and running, something about putting high school students on the hill, so you and I are meeting Spangles about that later. And we’re going to have to renege on our promise to Beck, so we have to lunch with him, too. Want to go to my old personal chef’s restaurant I told you about? He can probably make us grilled cheeses.” 

Peter stiffened at the mention of Beck. Shit. “Um, I don’t—I brought my lunch today,” he tried. “So, uh, you guys can go without me.” 

Tony shook his head. “No way. If I have to do this, you have to do this. I know it’s gonna suck, kid, but that’s the job.” 

Tony really  _ didn’t  _ know. But Peter was also pretty sure that Beck wouldn’t try anything, especially not in the middle of lunch. Of course, last time he’d been in the same room as Beck, he’d had an anxiety attack, but if that happened again, he could just hide his face in the grilled cheese, or maybe go to the bathroom, right?

This would be fine. Peter was strong. And if he was going to work in politics...well, he’d have to interact with Beck again, probably, so there was no point putting it off. 

“Okay. Uh, what’s the—American Youth?” He said, switching topics. 

“Yep. Meeting in an hour with Captain America to discuss it. As I said, some Senators we’re trying to woo are pushing for it, it’s something easy to back without having to make compromises later. And, judging based on you, smart high school students can be surprisingly helpful.” 

“I’m not a high school student,” Peter pointed out. 

“Give or take a few years. You’re not exactly approaching middle age,” Tony pointed out, and Peter couldn’t really argue with that. “So you. Look into that. I’m working on the actual Supreme Court thing, so don’t interrupt me unless it’s with coffee.” 

Peter nodded in affirmation and got to googling. His stomach was still in his throat, mostly about Beck but also about the meeting with the President, because those never got old. 

American Youth, Peter found out, was a program designed for high school students interested in government and politics. So far, they had connected students all over the country with state governments, and now they were setting their sights on White House internships. It seemed like a pretty good program, Peter had to admit. 

“Ready?” Tony asked, a little less than an hour later, and the two went to the Oval Office. 

President Rogers was sitting at his desk, glasses on. Peter had been shocked the first time he had seen the President in glasses—he never wore them in public, and they looked sort of ridiculous on him, strangely delicate on the President’s broad-shouldered body. 

“Ah. Tony. Peter. Come in,” he said, gesturing to the sofa and standing up himself, coming around to sit across from them. 

Tony sat, and Peter sat on the other side of the couch. Some habits he just couldn’t let go of. President Rogers pulled a sheet of paper from the coffee table. 

“So,” he said. “American Youth. What do we think? Any obvious problems?” President Rogers said, and looked at Tony, who, in turn, looked at Peter. 

“Uh,” Peter said, eloquently. “Not that I could tell, sir. The program has been implemented at the state-government level with positive results, with many of the participants going on to study at schools like Georgetown and Harvard, many on a pre-law track. Obviously, student participants would have to come from close by, but the projection says that there will still be an overwhelming amount of applicants to choose from. They’ll be placed in offices of Senators and House—“ he broke off, suddenly. 

High schoolers. In congressmen’s offices. 

In Beck’s office. 

President Rogers looked at him strangely. “Go on,” he said. 

“Uh, offices. High schoolers would be...interns, in their offices, which allows for a few hundred program participants—of course, uh, Congressmen could opt out of the program, some of them run a pretty tight ship, but...unpaid interns, so it’s kind of a win-win,” he finished. 

This was fine. Because he had a hand in the program. So all he needed to do was make sure that no one was put in Beck’s office. Or that the person in Beck’s office was a girl. His stomach churned. This was his fault. This was all his fault, because if he had just reported Beck…

The President was talking. “...Senators McFried and Loren,” he finished, and then looked at Peter expectantly. 

Peter glanced at him. “Uh, sorry, sir. I think I may have missed the question.” 

He could tell Tony was looking at him strangely from his place on the couch next to him. He determinedly did not make eye contact, kept his eyes trained on the President. 

“I was saying, this program is being spearheaded by Senators McFried and Loren, yes?” 

Peter nodded stiffly. He couldn’t even remember who McFried and Loren were, right now, but he assumed wherever the President had gotten that information wasn’t misinformed. 

“And Johnson,” Tony added from beside Peter, the strange look still on his face. 

Shit. 

“Uh, yeah,” Peter said stupidly. “And Johnson.” 

“Great,” President Rogers said, standing up to go back to his desk. “Thank you, Peter. Tony. So you two can be my liaisons for this program? Get it organized?” 

“Yes, Mr. President, sir,” Peter said quickly, and stood as well. Tony did the same, and the President sat back down at his desk. 

“Great,” he said. “Tony, we’ll need to meet later about Mendell as a possibility for the court, I’ll arrange it with Friday. Peter, always a pleasure.” 

“Mutual, sir,” Peter said, and the two left. 

Tony raised an eyebrow at him as soon as they left the office. “You’re off your game, Pete,” he said, walking them back to the office. 

“What? No,” Peter said quickly. “Just, uh, you know, it’s the President. Uh, sort of nerve-wracking. Talking to him?” The excuse sounded stupid even to him. 

“Mhm,” Tony replied, clearly unconvinced. “Well, we can start setting up that program, since Captain America himself allocated us that. Sometimes, I wonder if he actually does any work, or just delegates all day.” 

“To be fair,” Peter started. “There’s a lot to delegate.” 

“But he delegates it all to me!” Tony said, throwing his hands in the air. “Sorry, Peter. I don’t mean to implicate you in my treasonous conversations. The President is a very good President,” he said loudly. 

Peter nodded quickly. “The best President,” he replied. “My favorite President. So brave.” 

Beside him, Tony swallowed a grin. “Honorable to a fault. A true Gryffindor.” 

“Except not that, because he’s definitely not British,” Peter replied. “An all-American guy. Not a British bone in his body. I don’t think he’s ever  _ seen  _ tea.” 

“Oh, he’s seen it. He dumps it in every harbor he can find,” Tony said with a smirk as he opened the office door. “But seriously, Pete, what happened in there? You forgot about Johnson. You never forget anything. Your brain is usually like some…” 

“Steel trap?” Peter offered. 

“I was going to say fact box, but that’s good too,” Tony agreed, then looked at Peter questioningly. 

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” Peter said, hoping that was more believable, because, technically, he  _ hadn’t  _ gotten a lot of sleep last night. “I’m off my game. I’ll do better, though, Mr. Stark, I promise.” 

“It’s fine, I know you will,” Tony said, sitting down. “Let’s just, uh, get to work on this...American Kids thing. Friday?”

Friday came into the office. “What’s up, boss?” 

“Can you get the American Youth applications? I assume they’re in the database, somewhere. Just print ‘em out and bring ‘em in here,” he said, biting on the end of a pen. “And the President is going to call and set up a meeting. Don’t make it during lunch. I’m taking a long one.” 

“Will do. And won’t do,” Friday said, and left, shutting the door behind her. 

Tony clapped his hands down on the desk. “Now, let’s rank a bunch of teenagers,” he said with a sly grin. “God, I love rejecting people.”

His request to Friday, however, to “print ‘me out and bring ‘em in here” quickly showed it’s obvious flaws, however, when Friday started hauling applications in by the armload. They both stared for a moment, then Tony finally said, “Jesus, Friday, stop. I’m outsourcing this.”

“To who, boss?”

“You.” 

“I see,” Friday said with a sigh, and carried the papers back out again. 

Instead of sorting through the multi-thousand applications, Tony spent the rest of the morning making phone calls about the prospective nominee while Peter silently freaked out about lunchtime. The morning passed too quickly, and too soon, they were heading out. 

“I’ll drive,” Tony said, which was nice, at least, because Peter definitely wouldn’t be able to focus on the road ride now, and, of course, his car was a piece of shit. “And don’t you dare bring your packed lunch.” 

Peter didn’t actually have a packed lunch, so it was all too easy to comply with that order. 

The drive to the restaurant was quick, and as soon as Peter arrived, he raised his eyebrows. The place was polished, the waiters in suits, each table talking quietly—this place was  _ fancy.  _

“Mr. Stark, I—“ Peter began, because he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be able to afford whatever food they were about to order, but he was cut off. 

“Let me guess. This place is way too nice, you can stay in the car with the window cracked open like a golden retriever while I have my twenty-five dollar grilled cheese, right? To which I say, this is a business lunch, we’ll put it on the taxpayer’s bill. Happy?” 

No, not really, but it didn’t seem like he was going to get out of this one, because there was Beck sitting in the corner, and he had caught sight of the two of them and was waving.

Even now, three years later, seeing him was like being doused in ice water. But Tony walked towards the corner table and Peter had no choice but to follow. Once they’d gotten there, Beck stood up. 

Peter barely contained a flinch at the man’s sudden movement.

“Tony,” he said, warmly, then trained his eyes on Peter. “I didn’t know Peter would be joining us. I was wondering who the third seat was for.” 

Peter couldn’t help but look at his feet so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at Beck, but he could still tell the guy was looking him up and down. Tony sat down, so Peter and Beck followed suit. 

“Right,” Tony was saying. “Well, Peter here is my numero uno right now. Practically does all my work for me. In fact,” he said, and Peter heard the pivot a half a second before Tony said it, “You could really blame Peter here for what I’m about to tell you, if you think about it that way.” 

“And what is that? It must be bad if you’ve brought me to a place as nice as this,” Beck said, and Peter folded his hands in his lap, resolutely not looking at Beck, not looking, because he was feeling very queasy. 

Tony had just cleared his throat to answer when he was interrupted by a waiter. 

“Anything to start you off?” The waiter said. 

“Just water is fine,” Tony said, and Peter agreed.

Beck added, “No ice in mine, thank you.” 

“As I was saying,” Tony continued. “Because of...complications, we’re no longer able to add additional funding into the bill for Planned Parenthood.” He paused, giving Beck time to process. 

“And I have your personal aide to blame for this?” Beck said, with a warm smile, but Peter knew better knew better knew better. “Well. Peter. You shouldn’t screw with me, you know. I’ll end your career.” 

His tone was joking enough that Tony laughed. Peter knew better. 

“Technically, you have the founding fathers and their shoddy craftsmanship to blame,” Tony said with a wave of his hand. “God, if I could just write the Constitution...But regardless. It really was not my intention to renege on this. I believe in Planned Parenthood just as much as you do.”

“Well, you don’t. Otherwise, it’d be in the bill.” 

“It is in the bill,” Tony pointed out. “Just less than you want it to be.” 

They went back and forth like this for a while, but Peter couldn’t pay attention. Beck’s foot had found his own underneath the table and was lightly pressing against it in warning and he didn’t have the bandwidth to process anything else at all. At some point, a waiter came over, but Tony just ordered three grilled cheeses and so Peter didn’t have to speak, which was good, because he was pretty sure if he opened his mouth he would throw up. He tried desperately to tune in, to do his job.

“...the thing is, Tony,” Beck was saying. “I’m on Ways & Means. So even if you fast track this bill, I could tack on the Planned Parenthood bit on its way.” 

“You’d kill it,” Tony argued. “It’d be dead as soon as you did that.” 

Beck shrugged. Peter turned his attention away, stomach rolling. He could feel his hands, safely hidden underneath the table, shaking. He focused on a couple across the restaurant who appeared to be having a date. She was eating a steak, he was eating spaghetti. As Peter watched, a meatball rolled off of his plate and onto his lap. The girl tried to contain her laugh. Peter just felt sick. 

“Oh, fantastic,” Tony said, as a waiter came over with three plates. “Quentin, you’re going to go nuts over this grilled cheese, I promise. I’ve been telling Peter about it for weeks.”

“Has he really?” Beck asked, turning to Peter. 

“Uh,” Peter said, and swallowed. “He mentioned it a couple times,” he managed, without looking Beck in the eye, gaze hovering somewhere over his left shoulder instead. 

“Throwing me under the bus, here, kid,” Tony said, not unkindly. “I’m telling you. Nothing compares. Try it.” 

Beck took a bite. Chewed. Smiled. “This is the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had. Tony’s right, Peter. Try it, it’ll make you moan.” 

Peter’s knee jerked and nearly hit the table. Without looking at Beck or Tony, he picked up the grilled cheese and took a small bite, chewing and swallowing it as fast as he could, and hoped it wouldn’t come right back up in thirty seconds. He didn’t even taste it. 

“It’s good,” he confirmed, because Beck and Tony were both looking at him. 

Tony frowned. “Not exactly the resounding admiration I usually hear, but maybe your hot aunt is a killer chef or something, eh?” 

Peter had to stop himself from reacting to the mention of his aunt, too, because as soon as he heard what Tony said, he also heard Beck’s voice three years prior, saying,  _ you tell anyone and your aunt’s career is over,  _ and no, he wasn’t glad that Beck had been reminded Peter had a dependent. 

Aunt May would balk at being called a dependent, of course. But environmental policy advocacy wasn’t exactly a job that brought in the big bucks. 

Beck just smiled. “Ah, don’t tease him,” he said. “If Peter’s got the brains in him that you say he does, he could leave your office for somewhere better if you’re not careful. Hell, I’ll hire him.” 

“Don’t even think about saying yes to that,” Tony warned Peter. “Before you know it, you’ll be a vegan. Practically everyone in his office is.” 

Tony had nothing to worry about. There was no way he would ever work for Quentin Beck again. 

Over the course of lunch, Beck and Mr. Stark hashed out some kind of deal, though if anyone had put a gun to Peter’s head and asked him to tell them what the details were, he wouldn’t have been able to. He was mostly proud of not vomiting up the quarter of the grilled cheese he managed to eat. 

Tony didn’t seem to realize that every word Beck said to him was laced with warning, with a threat,  _ don’t say anything, don’t tell him,  _ but Peter sure did. 

As they were backing out of the parking lot later, though, Tony gave him a look. “You didn’t like the grilled cheese.” 

“I, um, wasn’t that hungry,” Peter said, which wasn’t technically a lie, because his stomach was still rolling violently and he hadn’t been hungry since he’d seen Beck’s wide-toothed grin. 

“Mm. I’ve never met a person that doesn’t like that grilled cheese. I could eat a three course meal and still come back for that grilled cheese. So what’s eating you? You were weird this morning, too.” 

And thank god he was weird this morning, so Tony wouldn’t directly associate Peter being weird with Beck. Of course, that was because of Beck, too. Beck Beck Beck.

Peter wished, for one desperate moment, that he had just gotten the messenger job, before he squashed that thought. No. With this job, he was doing good work. Beck wouldn’t touch him. He wouldn’t.

“Um.” Peter thought desperately, trying to come up with some semi-believable lie to answer Tony’s query. “Just, uh,” he said. 

“If you’re mad at me for making you introduce me to your aunt, well, frankly, I can’t believe she didn’t know what your real job was,” Tony said after a minute of Peter struggling. 

Oh, thank you, Peter thought. Tony had unwittingly presented him with a lie all wrapped up in a bow. “I’m not mad,” Peter said quickly. “Just…”

“Disappointed?” Tony joked. “Careful, there, you’ll sound like my mother. But kid, it’s probably good for your aunt to know your real job.”

“Yeah, she just—she was so excited about the messenger job, um,” Peter said. He was still having trouble thinking, pointing his brain in the right direction—even in the car, out of the restaurant, far away, Beck’s face was swimming in front of him, Beck’s voice loud in his ear. 

“I’m not really in the mood to explain to you again why this job is better than the messenger job, Peter,” Tony laughed. “Anyways. I’d say we banged out a pretty good solution during that lunch.” 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Peter said again, hoping Tony wouldn’t expect him to go into the finer details, of which he knew nothing. He picked at a thread in seam of the leather seat of Tony’s car. He had to focus. To bring his head back. He was fine. Beck was gone. 

“When we get back, I have to run off to a meeting with Spangles,” he said, “So you help Friday with the American Youth thing. I’ll be done in a couple of hours.” 

A couple of hours. That should be enough to bring Peter’s heart rate back to normal, maybe even get his brain functioning again. 

Back at the White House, Tony already gone off to the Oval Office, Peter got a stack of applications that Friday had already approved to be assigned and started going through them, trying to match up the high schoolers with Congresspeople who aligned at least vaguely with them in terms of policy focus. Each application took about ten times longer than it should have, as Peter’s mind kept drifting away from the bullet points and personal essays back to Beck, to what he was going to do about Beck, to how the hell he was going to assign a teenager to work with Beck knowing what he knew. To whether Beck harbored the same feelings towards female teenagers that he did for male teenagers.

He didn’t even notice the door open until it was already shut again. 

“Mr. Stark,” he began. 

At the same time, the person who had entered the room said, “Tony—“ 

Peter looked up. In front of him was a short-ish man—though not as short as Tony—with cropped hair. “You’re not Mr. Stark,” he said, standing up and meeting the man’s gaze. 

“Neither are you,” the man countered. 

“No,” Peter said. “But I have a desk, sir.  _ You  _ have a press pass.” And the guy did have a press pass, hung loose around his neck. Peter couldn’t see it well enough to make out the name, or to see if the picture on the ID matched the guy in front of him. 

“That’s right,” the guy latched on. “I’m just here doing press stuff.”

Press stuff. Right.

Peter shuffled his papers out of sight. “No, you’re not. Press people aren’t allowed back here. Why did Friday let you in? Are you even a member of the press?” He put his hand on the phone on his desk. “I can call security.” His heart was thrumming in his chest, back to the pace it had been at during lunch, because he still wasn’t recovered and now here was this guy in the office and the door was shut and Peter wouldn’t be able to call security fast enough if he did something if he tried something what was this guy going to try? 

“No!” The man said immediately. “You don’t need to do that. Jesus. I’m Clint Barton, Senior White House Correspondent. I write for the New York Times and the Washington Post and a whole lot of other fancy newspapers that I’m sure you’ve heard of. Are you the new Ted?”

Peter didn’t answer. He gripped the desk to stop his hands from shaking. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re in here, Mr. Barton,” he said, trying to take a deep breath and failing.

“Cool it with the sirs and shit. You can call me Clint,” he offered, then sighed as Peter didn’t let up, just squeezed the desk tighter. Peter could tell his knuckles were turning white. Could Clint? “Friday might...not be at her desk currently,” he conceded. “I was looking for Tony, but you and I can hang out in the meantime.” 

“No, we can’t,” Peter argued, because his heart was in his throat and he really needed this guy to leave so he could put his head between his knees or maybe vomit into the trash can or even, potentially, curl up underneath his desk, but the door was still closed and shutting him in with this guy, and his hands were still shaking and Beck was there, somewhere, in the corner of his eye, but when he turned and looked, he was on the other side, just out of view, his smile glinting in the light coming in from the window. Was he really there? No. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there, was he?

“Aw, don’t be a buzzkill. We have to get acquainted! If you’re the new Ted, you and I will be working pretty closely over your tenure. There were a couple of times where Ted and I worked  _ very  _ closely,” Clint said, and threw Peter a wink. 

Peter bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. “I think you should leave, sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. 

Clint tilted his head. “You alright?” He asked. “You look a little pale.” 

Great. Not only was he halfway to an anxiety attack, he was also  _ obviously  _ halfway to an anxiety attack. “I’m fine. Uh. Clint,” he managed. “Can you please leave? I don’t think Mr. Stark would want—“

“He won’t mind,” Clint said with a shrug. “I’m not sure that you’re ‘fine’, though. You want to take a seat?” 

Peter did sit, only because his legs were starting to shake, too, and that was never a good sign. He was not really prepared to collapse in front of this guy. Not that he had ever  _ collapsed  _ before. But then, he’d never eaten a grilled cheese across from his rapist, either, or, for that a matter, had to stop a potential intruder (and more likely New York Times writer, but still) from stealing Washington secrets. And he definitely hadn’t done those two things on the same day. 

“Really,” Clint said slowly. “Stark and I are buds, no matter how much he pretends to hate the press. He won’t be pissed at you for me being in here. He’s nicer than he seems. How long you been his aide?” 

“Three—three weeks,” Peter said, working on a breath in. Breathing out would come next, and would be harder, and he clung to the guy’s questions, which allowed him to focus on something that wasn’t Beck, still in the corner of his eye. Peter was pretty sure Clint knew that his questions were helping, because he continued on that same track. 

“You go to Georgetown? Or AU?” He asked casually, taking a seat on the couch across from Peter’s desk. 

“Uh, not in college yet. I graduated high school a few…” He breathed out. “A few years ago.” 

Clint nodded, folding his legs. “Where’d you graduate from?”

“Midtown.” 

Clint whistled. “Must be smart, then. Although, Stark wouldn’t hire anyone who wasn’t. You said you weren’t in college  _ yet.  _ Got your sights set on anywhere in particular?” 

“Georgetown?” Peter said. Beck wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. The shaking in his legs had stopped but his hands were still trembling, and he still couldn’t look Clint in the eye. “Or. Somewhere else close by.” 

“Good choice,” Clint nodded amiably. “D.C. is where it all happens, after all. I’m from Iowa, myself. D.C. is much more exciting, which is actually saying something because I was in the circus for a while. Even elephants aren’t quite as formidable as the Senate majority leader. Have you always lived here?” 

Peter jerked his head in something that was hopefully reasonably close to a  _ no.  _ “Lived in the city. Uh, New York City. When I was a kid.” 

“Why’d you move here?” 

Peter struggled for an answer that didn’t start with  _ my parents  _ and end with _ dead.  _ “My aunt’s job,” he settled on. 

“What does she do?” 

“Policy advocate. Lobbying and stuff,” Peter explained. “Environment.” 

“A noble cause,” Clint said, which was code for  _ you’re living paycheck to paycheck, then,  _ Peter was pretty sure, although there didn’t seem to be any judgement in Clint’s tone. They sat in silence for a minute. Peter brought his breathing back to normal. His hands stilled. Beck wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. 

“Thanks,” Peter said after a minute. “For...helping.” 

Clint shrugged. “It’s a tough job filled with a lot of hyper-focused people. More people here have anxiety than in a mental health ward. I’m practiced at it.” 

Peter considered this. Tony definitely had anxiety. Pepper didn’t seem to, and neither did Natasha or Rhodey, but Dr. Banner had an air of something about him, although Peter wasn’t certain it was anxiety.

“Also,” Clint continued. “I assume that whatever just happened was, at least partially, my fault. So, uh, sorry about that. I promise, I’m not here to hack into the White House or something. Just a reporter who heard a story and is looking for a confirmation, courtesy of a Chief of Staff who owes me a favor.” 

Coming back to his senses, finally, Peter said, “Right. You should leave, Mr. Barton. I really don’t think you’re supposed to be back here.” 

“Clint,” Clint reminded him. “And as I said. Favor owed. Maybe you know something. Has anyone told you anything about the Supreme Court nominee? Something about the right to privacy?” 

Peter shook his head, even though that had been all anyone had been talking about since that morning. “No, sir.” 

Clint sighed. “You don’t need to lie. Stark’ll tell me.” 

“I’ll tell you what?” Tony said, walking into the room. The door swung shut behind him and he sat down at his desk and kicked his feet up on the desk before taking in the scene before him. His eyes narrowed when he saw Peter, so Peter assumed he still looked like crap from his bout of anxiety. “Peter, is he giving you shit?” 

Clint shifted awkwardly. 

“Uh, no, Mr. Stark,” Peter said quickly, because Clint had helped him, after all, and Peter wasn’t an asshole. 

Clint looked surprised. Which, in turn, Tony caught on to. 

“What did you do?” He demanded. 

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Peter replied. 

“I have absolute faith in you, kid, that question was directed at Fuckhead over here,” he pointed to Clint. 

“Ah, Stark, you love me,” Clint said easily. 

Tony crossed his arms. “At times, yes. Right now, you did something. What did you do.” His feet were still up on the desk but his shoulders were stiff, his eyes trained on Clint.

“I…” Clint winced. “I may have given your personal aide an anxiety attack.” 

“What?” Tony demanded, face darkening. 

“He didn’t!” Peter spoke up. Everything was going sideways. “I was already—I mean, it wasn’t his fault. He helped me.” Which was true. It hadn’t been Clint’s fault. 

“Mhm,” Tony said, unimpressed. “Clint, if you ever do that again? No more White House pass for you. No more jobs for you. No more Thai food for you. Now. Why are you here?” 

“I don’t like being threatened, Stark,” Clint said, but there wasn’t real weight behind his words. 

“And I don’t like people giving Peter anxiety attacks. So. I repeat. Why are you here?” There was more weight behind Tony’s words, but the tension had passed out of Mr. Stark’s shoulders and, so, out of the room. 

“Heard something about President Rogers’s nominee and the right to privacy.” 

Tony sighed. “President Rogers has not named a nominee at all, so I’m not sure who it is you’re talking about. Also, you should really go to Pepper with your questions, seeing as she’s the Press Secretary.” 

“Yeah, I could,” Clint hedged, “But Pepper doesn’t owe me a favor. You do. So. The nominee? And don’t give me that bullshit about the President not naming a nominee, we all know who he wanted to pick.” 

“I’ll neither confirm nor deny that,” Tony said. “But fine. Because I owe you a favor, I’ll throw you a bone. Two words:  _ book jacket.  _ And I’m not giving you anything else,” he added when Clint opened his mouth to protest. 

“Book jacket?” Clint repeated, sounding unimpressed. 

“Book jacket,” Tony confirmed. “Maybe you would have gotten more if you hadn’t harassed Peter. Think about your actions next time. Now get out of my office, will you?” 

Clint complied, mouthing  _ book jacket  _ as he left and shaking his head. 

Tony turned to Peter, his voice softer, nominally. “You good, kid?” He asked. 

Peter nodded. “Yes. Yes, Mr. Stark, sir, I’m fine. Just, uh—“

“On edge,” Tony said. “I’ve noticed. You’ve had a long day.” 

Peter nodded. “Yeah.” 

Tony looked at him, calculation in his dark eyes. “You good to work?” He asked finally. 

Anything to distract him. “Yes, please,” he said, and Mr. Stark chuckled. 

“Alright. Here’s what we have on our plate this afternoon…”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh tony is kind of an asshole in this chapter i’m not sure why? it just happened. let’s say california brings it out in him.
> 
> so glad y’all at enjoying!

“So, Peter,” Tony said, slightly shouting over the wind of the landing strip. His hair was flying behind his face like a movie star’s. Peter was facing in the opposite direction, and kept having to push his curls out of his eyes. “When you applied for that messenger job, did you expect to be delivering said messages via Air Force One?” He didn’t give Peter a chance to respond, just walked towards the ramp that led onto the plane. “After you.”

“No,” Peter said once they were inside the plane and he didn’t have to shout, adjusting his backpack straps. Tony had brought a massive suitcase; Peter had opted for a carry-on. They were only going to California for two days, after all. “Although I don’t think I’m delivering any messages right now.”

“We could probably drum up some messages for you to deliver,” Tony said with a shrug. “What do you think, Pep? Any messages you can think of?”

Pepper was typing something on her phone, standing at the front of the plane. Even in the middle of the night, she looked impeccable. She didn’t respond to Tony, just looked at him pointedly and turned back to whatever she was typing. 

“Looks like that’s a no-can-do on the messages,” Tony said, sliding into a window seat. Peter had seen the insides of planes in movies, and he was pretty sure that they didn’t typically look this nice. Although, that would make sense, seeing as this plane was for the president.

“You look like you’ve never been on a private plane before,” Tony chuckled. Then looked at him. “You’ve never been on a plane at all before, have you.”

Peter shrugged. “No. This one seems pretty cool, though!”

Tony shook his head. “Okay. We need to get you some, like, gingerale. Or one of those shitty airplane blankets that’s really just a large paper napkin.” 

“It’s okay,” Peter said quickly. “I brought a blanket.” He patted his backpack.

“You brought a—fine. Good. That’s completely normal,” Tony said under his breath. Peter blushed, but sat down in the seat across from Tony’s—there were a good few feet between them, so he wasn’t too close, especially if he curled his legs up—although he doubted he’d be able to sleep on this plane ride. 

Behind Tony, a blond came through the door, which shut behind him: President Rogers, looking as presidential as ever in a suit with his hair combed back. Peter stood, and Tony, without looking, followed suit, catching on. 

“Set to go?” The President asked the plane of people. A couple of press correspondents nodded. Pepper didn’t even look up. The President waited. He did this often, Peter had noticed: waited for verbal confirmation, even if everyone was too star-struck to give it to him. 

“Go ahead,” Natasha said finally, and the President smiled and made the call. Peter quickly sat down as the plane started to move beneath him, first turning onto the runway and then gathering speed until—

“Woah,” Peter said as he felt the plane lift off the ground, a strange, counter-intuitive sinking feeling. “We’re flying.” 

Tony looked at him, amused, over the dark sunglasses he was inexplicably wearing, but didn’t say anything. 

Peter couldn’t bring himself to care. 

“Like, in the air. Fully suspended. In a hunk of metal.” He grinned. “We’re leaving on a jetplane.” He looked out the little window as the plane smoothly moved further and further from the earth. Shut the window. Opened it again. Continued his jam session quietly. “Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are shooting stars? I could really use a wish right now—“

“I ‘wish’ you would be quiet,” Tony grumbled, although there was no ice in his tone, again looking at Peter over his sunglasses, then leaning back onto his travel pillow and shimmying his shoulders, clearly trying to get comfortable.

“Right. My bad,” Peter said, but couldn’t help but finish the song under his breath. Tony groaned, but didn’t say anything. 

Tony quickly fell asleep, judging on his occasional snores. In fact, most of the people on the plane seemed to be trying to get some sleep; it would be a long weekend in California, Peter had been warned, filled with press conferences about the environmental policy the President was committing too, various parties chock-full of potential donors, and ceremonial lunches. Well. They’d only be in town for two days, so probably only two ceremonial lunches. No one would be sleeping much in California, anyways, so people all over the plane were curled up in their sleeps, eye masks on to darken the place (although, with the night sky and the lights dimmed, it was already pretty dark). Even Clint, who had told Peter onee that he _ always slept with one eye open,  _ had both his eyes closed. 

Peter couldn’t sleep. Not up in the air, and definitely not this close to Tony. So he tried to do some work for a while, but there really wasn’t enough light to see by. He listened to music for a while, and eventually got up to stretch his legs. 

He walked to the other end of the plane, cracking his neck and knuckles as he walked, glancing at the sleeping figures all around him—Natasha looked a lot more peaceful in her sleep, he observed, the lines on her face softening slightly—and was preparing to walk back when someone said his name. 

“Hey, Peter,” President Rogers said. 

He was wearing his glasses, Peter observed.

“Hi!” Peter said, turning around, then winced at his volume. “I mean, hi, Mr. President, sir,” Peter said in more of a whisper. “I didn’t realize anyone was still awake.”

The President gestured for Peter to take a seat. Peter did so. Because hey, this was the  _ President.  _ “I’m not very good at planes, unfortunately,” President Rogers said. “My first time on one was when I was about your age, actually. Although my first plane wasn’t Air Force One.” 

Peter processed that. “Uh, how do you know this is my first plane? Is it in my file? Did you  _ read  _ my file? Or was I not supposed to get up? Because I saw Dr. Banner standing earlier so I figured—“

“I heard you singing earlier,” The President said with a wry smile, effectively cutting him off. 

The  _ President of the United States.  _ Had heard Peter singing Airplanes by B.o.B. Blood rushed to Peter’s cheeks. 

“Oh, my god—gosh, sir, that’s—I’m so—“

“It was catchy. I’m not sure I know the song,” the President finished. “I do like Leaving on a Jetplane. Though I’m fairly sure your boss would make fun of me for saying that.”

“No, he’d—“ Peter started, but broke off. He was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to lie to the President of the United States. Instead, he scratched his head. “I mean. It’s a great song, though. The catchy one, I mean. Not that Leaving on a Jetplane isn’t good! It’s great!” 

President Rogers looked at him for a moment, amused, then said, “Where’re you from, kid?” 

“Queens,” Peter said quickly. He loved D.C., but he was  _ from  _ Queens. 

The President honest-to-god  _ grinned. _ “Brooklyn,” he shot back. 

Which, of course, Peter knew already. Because this was the President. But he wasn’t about to say that. “New York is great,” he said, instead. He was suddenly hyper aware that he was having a personal conversation with the President. And the best he could come up with was _New York is great._ “I mean, Delmar’s. Unbeatable.” 

The President grinned. “I love Delmar’s.” He ran a hand across his face. “So. You enjoying your work? You’ve been Tony’s personal aide for, what?”

“Two months now,” Peter said. “Yeah! Yeah. It’s great, uh, Mr. President, sir. I mean, it’s the coolest. All the, um, policy stuff,” Jesus, he sounded like he didn’t know what the heck he was talking about, “And uh. The drug bill, passing that, was really awesome, too. Mr. President. And Mr. Stark is great.” 

The President looked pensive. Glanced behind Peter, where Tony was sleeping. “Yes, that was a good bill. I wasn’t sure that Tony would pull it off, though, it wasn’t a simple thing to pass.” 

Peter, honestly, sort of resented that. 

“You shouldn’t doubt Mr. Stark. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s really good at it. And he believes in you, so you should probably believe in him, too.” The words came out before he could reel them back in. As soon as he’d heard what he’d said, he blanched. “I mean, Mr. President.” 

The President raised an eyebrow. “No. Please. Tell me how you really feel.” 

“Sorry, sir,” Peter said. “But he can tell, you know. When you don’t trust him. And I don’t think it’s right to make someone your second in command and then make them doubt themselves. Uh. Mr. President.”

The President leaned backwards. Looked hard at Peter. Peter could feel his skin turning paler by the second, although, with any luck, it was dark enough that the President wouldn’t be able to tell. What was he thinking? Why didn’t he just apologize and then shut the hell up?  _ Because you’re right,  _ a voice in his head said, and Peter didn’t necessarily  _ disagree  _ with the voice, but him being right or wrong didn’t really change the fact that he had just reprimanded the President. 

“Well,” The President sighed, finally. “You’re probably right, Peter from Queens. Things between Tony and I are….strained, and that’s likely more my fault than his.” He chuckled. “You’ve got guts, though, kid. Saying all that to me.” 

Peter winced.

“Ah, it’s fine. I needed to hear it. And I’m fairly certain it’s not treason unless you threaten to kill me, so, as long as you steer clear of that, you can stop looking at me like I’m about to throw you in Guantanamo Bay.” 

Peter coughed. “Yes, sir,” he said, trying to straighten up. 

The President laughed. “Tony picked a good one,” he said, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I’ll be seeing more of you down the road.” 

Had the President just commented on his future career prospects? Quite possibly. He’d definitely just called Peter a  _ good one,  _ whatever that meant, and said he had  _ guts.  _ Peter couldn’t help but grin. 

The conversation winded down and he made his way back to his seat. As he sat down, pulling his blanket over him—he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but it was chilly on the plane—Tony stirred. He looked at Peter, then the direction Peter had come from.

“You just coming from a late night chat with the President?” Tony yawned. 

“Uh—“ Peter replied, hoping Tony hadn’t heard their conversation. He didn’t seem to have, as, judging on the length of this yawn, he had literally just woken up. “Yeah. Couldn’t sleep. So.” 

“I guess that’ll be one for the diary,” Tony said. “Or twitter, or however you kids express your feelings these days.” 

“I don’t have a diary, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, but Tony had already fallen asleep. 

For the next two hours, Peter watched the sun slowly make its way over the horizon, beams of light cutting through the thick layers of clouds in red and orange. Soon, the plane made a jostled landing. 

They were in California. 

The hour after the plane landed was stressful—Peter must have shown his ID to twelve different people. The President and his immediate security team had broken off and gotten straight into a set of government cars, but Tony had said he had some stuff to clear up about their return flights so they had to stop at security. They did so without a hitch—Peter accidentally said “you too” when the personnel had said that he hoped he had a good stay in California, but Tony hadn’t heard, luckily. At some point, he was pretty sure he had gotten lost in the airport, but then Tony had come out of a Starbucks with two cups of coffee and a grimace. 

“Nasty stuff, but it does the trick,” he had said, taking a gulp of the still-steaming drink. Peter had done the same; he was exhausted. Was this what flying was always like? 

They’d left the airport soon after and gotten into a cab that would take them to the hotel. “Just to drop off our stuff,” Tony had warned. “No naptime.” 

Currently, Peter was standing in the hotel room he was supposed to share with Tony, and wondering how the hell he was going to sleep over the next two days. 

For some reason, when Tony had said hotel, he had pictured that they would all be sleeping in some sort of suite together, summer-camp style; him and Tony and Dr. Banner and Pepper and even Natasha, curled up by the door. Which, of course, was stupid: instead, he was sharing a small suite with Tony. There were two separate rooms, but no locks on the doors. 

He contemplated dragging a chair in front of his door before he went to bed, but that would be hard to explain away if Tony found out. Anyways, this was irrational. Tony would never try something like that; Peter had become pretty certain about that over the past few months. This was fine. He would just shut the door and sleep. 

Tony broke through Peter’s haze of thoughts. “Last time we came to the good state of California I stayed in J. Lo’s house. Unfortunately Spangles said that made me  _ unavailable  _ or something, so instead we’re staying in this shithole hotel with the rest of the government.”

“Oh, no it’s—it’s really nice, Mr. Stark,” Peter reassured him, because it  _ was _ , truthfully—it was the nicest hotel Peter had ever stayed in, for sure. He hadn’t stayed in many, admittedly, but still.

“It’s not, Pete, but we’ll make do. There’s a mini bar, which is promising. Probably has…m&m’s or something you’ll like,” he waved vaguely. “Anyways. We’re already late. Drop your stuff in your room and we’ll head out.” 

Peter complied, setting his backpack down in the room and testing the handle—would it wake him up in the middle of the night if someone turned it? the answer was no—before rejoining Tony. The two of them walked to the elevator.

“So,” Tony said once he had pressed the button for the ground floor. “A reminder that our biggest target right now is the California governer, Thor Odinson. His approval rating is one of the highest in the country, and we’re going for some mutual respect action and some photos to prove it for our second term campaign. But in all likelihood you’ll be focusing on the smaller fish—assume that everyone you meet has money and lots of it, okay? Money that we want.” 

“Got it,” Peter said, and the two stepped out of the elevator. Even though it was fall, the sun was shining brightly and the air was warm. California.

“Also, we’ll be having some lunch with people you might have heard of.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed. “Like, state senate members?”

Tony sighed. “Nope. Movie stars. And I swear to god, Peter Parker, if you ask for even  _ one  _ signature—“

“I won’t,” Peter said quickly. “Um. Unless Neil Patrick Harris is there. Then I can’t make any promises.” 

Tony stopped halfway through opening the door of the cab he had just hailed. “Neil Patrick Harris? Please tell me you’re kidding right now.” 

Hey, Neil Patrick Harris was cool. “Neil Patrick Harris is cool, Mr. Stark,” Peter protested, getting into the cab beside him. “And when I see him, I’ll be telling him that you implied otherwise.” 

Tony didn’t respond, just sighed and pulled out his phone, typing furiously. 

“Emailing?” Peter asked. 

Tony didn’t look up. “You can send some too, if you want. Check your inbox, you were copied on a couple.”

Being copied on emails shouldn’t make him feel so warm and fuzzy, should it? But it did, and Peter pulled out his phone with a grin.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like there is brief Wade Wilson/peter Parker in this it’s very brief I know it’s not tagged but honestly it was unplanned I’m just a self-indulgent asshole who can’t help it.....big sorry. If it bothers you it’s not, like, deeply relevant to the plot so you could probably honestly skip it. Anyways! Glad u all are enjoying. :)

Neil Patrick Harris had, in fact, been at the lunch, and although Peter hadn’t asked him for a signature, he had gotten a selfie, which was, objectively, more exciting, although Tony had laughed at him for it. He’d sent it to Aunt May immediately, who had texted him back _ OMG— _ at least someone understood that Neil Patrick Harris was awesome. 

The rest of the day had been similarly awesome and exhausting; they’d spoken to Thor Odinson, who looked like a literal god with his long blonde hair and suntanned skin. He had patted Peter on the back at one point, and the guy was as  _ strong  _ as a god, too; Peter had nearly gone flying. Peter had, as per Tony’s request, tried to win over some of the smaller fish, and he was pretty confident he had succeeded in at least befriending a couple of state senators and rich people. He’d even befriended a grumpy-looking guy named Loki before discovering that Loki was, in fact, Thor’s adopted brother. 

It was nearly ten at night, now, though, and there was one last thing Peter had to do, the thing he’d been dreading all day: go to bed. He had told Tony he was going to the gym ( _ ugh, I hate youths,, it’s the middle of the night,  _ Tony had grumbled, retiring to his own room) to gain some time, but now he was pacing the hallway in front of the door to their shared suite, trying to convince himself to go in and go to sleep. 

He was, after all, really fucking tired. They’d been running around all day, and he hadn’t slept on the plane, so he was running on empty. If he didn’t sleep, he would be half-delirious tomorrow. But that knowledge wasn’t quite enough to get him to go into the hotel room and into bed. 

It was fine. He just had to go in, lie in bed, and count sheep or something until he fell asleep. He could do this. Easy. 

Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the hotel bar drinking a Diet Coke. He’d chickened out. The bar was mostly empty; a few people dressed in suits were sitting alone in various booths, furiously typing on laptops or flipping through sheaths of paper, and there was a couple in the corner, sitting a table small enough to let their knees knock against each other. On a date? Married? Peter couldn’t tell. 

He was sitting at the bar; it felt odd to sit alone at a table. A man who looked to be in his late twenties with a sharp jawline was sitting a few stools down, but, other than that, the place was empty. Peter sipped his coke and checked his email. For once, nothing. No excuse for being awake, no distraction. If he was bolder, he would have ordered a drink, but he was pretty sure a nice hotel would ID. Or would a nice hotel  _ not  _ ID? Either way, he wasn’t about to risk it. 

“Hey,” Jawline-guy said suddenly, not looking up from his nearly-done drink. It was an amber liquid; definitely alcohol, then. 

Peter didn’t really know the protocol here: did people normally talk in bars? Well. Jawline-guy was hot, so. “Hi,” Peter decided on. 

At the sound of Peter’s voice, Jawline-guy looked at him, bright blue eyes meeting beter’s brown eyes. Raised his eyebrows. Turned in his seat so he was entirelyfacing Peter. 

“ _ Hello,”  _ he said, his voice taking on a sultry tone. 

Peter raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Jawline-guy said immediately. “I was going for a funny-sexy thing with that and I think I hit more of a creepy-loser vibe.” 

Peter laughed. “I wish I could reassure you,” he said. “Peter,” he added, because, well, why not? Jawline-guy was hot and funny and only accidentally a creepy loser. Probably. 

The guy smiled. “Wade,” he replied. “So, what’s a hot guy like you doing in a place like this?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Actually, on second thought, this is a pretty nice place. Nicer than the bar I’m usually in, where that line makes sense. Eh, it still works. A guy as hot as you should be, at, like, Disneyland or nothing, y’know?” 

Peter really couldn’t tell whether the guy was talking to him or to himself. He decided to respond, anyways, ignoring how his heart fluttered when the guy called him  _ hot.  _ “Thanks? Uh, work. Is what I’m doing here. I mean, what I’m doing in this hotel, not what I’m doing currently, in this bar. Obviously.”  _ Great work, Peter, _ he said in his head _. Way to be cool. _

“You with those government people, then?” He asked. 

“Yeah—wait, hold on, how did you—“

Wade waved him off. “I’m observant,” he replied. “But you seem a little young to be working for the president.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hold on, exactly how young are you? Because I’m not in the business of—“

“I’m twenty,” Peter said quickly. 

“Thank god,” Wade said, then tilted his head. “So you’re telling me you you can’t even drink, you just came down to the hotel bar to have a, what?” He looked at Peter’s glass. “Coca Cola? Or are you just here for the ambience?” 

“First of all, it’s Diet Coke,” Peter corrected. “Big difference. Also, the ambience isn’t so bad. Good company, at least,” Peter tried, then blushed at how cheesy that had sounded. “Uh. I mean.” 

But Wade was grinning. “Aren’t you adorable!” He said. “But you can’t have _ known  _ I was down here when you decided to come. Unless you did,” he said, squinting at Peter. “And you’re here to kill me.” 

“No murdering,” Peter promised. 

“I prefer un-aliving, but we can agree to disagree on terminology, eh?” Wade replied. 

This man was very strange. 

“Anyways, Peter, you look all hot and bothered. And not because of me, although I  _ wish  _ it was because of me.” 

Peter fidgeted. Was he really that easy to read? “Uh. Just having some trouble sleeping in my room, I guess? Not used to having roommates. What are you doing here?” He added right after. 

“Changing the subject, are we? I can roll with that. I’m here to watch that guy over there,” he said, tilting his head to one of the businessmen. “I’ve been hired to un-alive him.” 

Peter choked on his coke. “Haha,” he said, looking over at the balding businessman. Wade was kidding, although he didn’t really get the joke. 

Wade looked at him, not laughing. He  _ was  _ kidding, wasn’t he?

“You’re—you are kidding, right?” Peter said, shifting an inch or two away from the man, who Peter was suddenly noticing had  _ a lot  _ of muscles. Oddly enough, Peter wasn’t…scared. The guy didn’t seem particularly threatening. Although he  _ had  _ just said he was a murder-for-hire. But he was kidding. Right?

Wade looked at him in silence. Oh, god, was he not—

“Of course I’m kidding,” Wade said, breaking into a grin. “What, like I would just tell you I’m a mercenary after meeting you five minutes ago? That shit waits until at  _ least  _ the second date, baby. Gotta put out before you get the tragic backstory.” 

Peter let out a breath. Of course Wade had been kidding. What was he thinking?

“If you think I put out on the second date, you’re sorely mistaken,” Peter said. 

Wade pouted. “But you’re only here for the weekend! How many dates are we supposed to be able to go on in the next twenty-four hours? Oooh, that sounds like a great idea for a rom-com.  _ The couple has to go on twenty-four dates in twenty-four hours.  _ Adorable. Maybe I should quit being a mercenary and start writing movies.” 

“No dates,” Peter said, cutting him off with an apologetic look. “I’m pretty busy.” And it really was too bad, because Peter kind of liked Wade. Probably would have gone on a date with him, if he’d met him in D.C., and Peter didn’t go on a lot of dates. (In fact, the last date he had been on had been four months ago, set up by his best friend from high school, Ned, and had been a tragedy from start to finish. Which, to be fair, wasn’t very long, as the date had ended fifteen minutes after it started.) 

Wade’s pout deepened, but seconds later wiped off his face. He grinned at Peter instead. “Well. That’s okay! Maybe in a different fanfiction…” Which, what did that mean? But Wade continued before Peter could say anything. “You know, I think I’m going to have to go.  _ There’s someone watching me, _ ” he said in an exaggerated whisper. Hopped off his stool and started walking towards the door. 

As he passed by Peter, though, he stopped. Set his hand on the bar. “If that roommate of yours keeps giving you trouble,” he said, his voice low, “Or anyone else, you give me a call. Free of charge,” he added, and then walked away before Peter could object. 

Where his hand had been was a business card that said _ Wade Wilson, un-aliver for hire, _ followed by a phone number. 

Peter stared at the card. 

Wade hadn’t been kidding. 

Was talking to a mercenary illegal? Probably not, Peter reasoned, because he hadn’t  _ known,  _ but oh, god, Wade had told him who his mark was, hadn’t he? Was that guy going to die now? Or had he been lying? After all, why would he tell Peter who he was going to kill?

Peter should have burned the card. Or given it to the police. 

Instead, he pocketed it.

_ There’s someone watching me, _ Peter remembered Wade saying with a jolt. He looked around the bar surreptitiously. He didn’t see anyone out-of-the-ordinary…

“Hey, Peter,” a voice said from behind him. 

He jumped. Spun around. 

Natasha slipped into the seat beside him. “Who was that?” She asked, tone casual. 

Had  _ Natasha _ been the one watching? Peter still didn’t really know what her jobs was, after all. Maybe her policy-writing was a front for being a part of the CIA or something. In which case, Peter was definitely now on some kind of list. 

“Uh, no idea,” Peter said, then internally cursed himself. Why had he lied? He had to stick with it, now, though. “I mean, not  _ no  _ idea? He talked to me for a couple minutes? Not, like, anything interesting, though. Why?”

Natasha shrugged. “No reason in particular,” she said. “Just thought it was odd to see you talking to someone random in a bar at ten thirty pm when you can’t even drink.” 

Was that…a threat? A question? Natasha Romanov was completely impossible to read. 

“Well, you know,” Peter hedged. “Uh. Diet Coke. Gotta love it.”

Natasha looked at him, unimpressed. “How long’s it been since you slept, anyways? Two days? Three?” 

“Wh-what?” Peter said. “No! What?” 

It sounded pitiful even to him. 

“You didn’t sleep on the plane,” she said frankly. 

Peter blinked. “You—how do you know that?” 

Natasha shrugged. “I’m observant,” she said, making that the  _ second _ person who had said that to Peter tonight. He hoped this one wasn’t a mercenary. 

“You were asleep!” He objected. “I saw you.” 

She just winked. Which cleared literally nothing up. Then, quick-as-lighting, her expression changed from playful to deadly serious. 

“Well what are  _ you  _ doing here? It’s not like I have a monopoly on the shouldn’t-be-in-a-hotel-bar-at-ten-thirty-pm-ness.” 

Natasha was silent for a minute. Then said, “I’m avoiding my roommate, actually.” At Peter’s questioning look, she added, “Pepper.” 

That didn’t make sense. Who would avoid Pepper? She was, like, the last person anyone would dislike. “Do you have a problem with her or something?” Peter asked doubtfully. 

Natasha shook her head. “Not at all.” She looked at him contemplatively. “I’m going to tell you something, Peter, because my therapist says it’s good to tell the truth to at least one person. That being said, if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

She didn’t seem to be kidding, either. What the hell was this night?

“All due respect, but, um, if you’re about to tell me state secrets, I don’t really want to know. I mean actually  _ I really want to know  _ but I  _ shouldn’t  _ know and I definitely wouldn’t be able to go on the run from the CIA because I don’t actually know how to, like, make a fake ID or anything, so—“

“I have a thing for Pepper,” Natasha said. 

Peter stopped short. “Seriously?” He asked. Because honestly, he hadn’t been entirely certain that Natasha had emotions. Besides  _ strong  _ ones about Girl Scout cookies, but everyone had strong emotions about Girl Scout cookies. 

“You tell anyone and I kill you,” Natasha reminded. 

“I wouldn’t!” Peter said. “Really. That’d be, like, a super-dick move.” He shuffled in his seat. “Thanks for telling me, though. That’s awesome.” 

He hadn’t talked to anyone about a crush since high school. Damn. 

“You should ask her out,” he said. 

“Mm, absolutely not,” Natasha replied. “Thanks for the advice, but I prefer to let these things pass.”

“Feelings aren’t like gas, Natasha,” Peter replied, trying to keep his face composed. 

She glared at him. 

“Okay, okay, no joking,” he said, holding his hands up. “Please don’t kill me. But seriously. It can’t hurt. You should do it. Or, like, flirt a little. Just see what happens.”

“It  _ can  _ hurt,” Natasha countered, sipping a Diet Coke. Hold on, that was _ his  _ Diet Coke. How had she stolen it without him noticing it? Maybe she really was a member of the CIA. A member of the CIA he had just pissed off. In addition to the mercenary he had just flirted with. What a night. 

“Well, you shouldn’t _ avoid  _ her,” Peter reasoned. “That’ll just make her upset. She does care about you, after all.” 

Ignoring his very good point, Natasha said, “You’re one to talk.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean!” Peter protested. Had she overheard the entire conversation with Wade? Because then he was  _ definitely  _ on a list of some kind. 

“You’re avoiding your roommate. Don’t argue, there’s literally no other reason for you to be in this hotel bar drinking a _Diet Coke_ instead of up in your room sleeping. You’re clearly exhausted.” 

Peter sighed. “Fine. I’m not avoiding my roommate. I just, uh, don’t like my room.” 

He hoped Natasha would take that as an opportunity to make some quip about the mini-bar not being to his liking and then promptly forget all about the subject, as Tony would, but no such luck. 

“Your room?” She said. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know. You’re extraordinarily bad at it.” 

Peter blushed, but stared at her resolutely. What was he supposed to do,  _ confess?  _ Yeah, sure. 

She stared back at him for a minute, completely intimidating. Then her gaze softened. “If you really don’t want to talk about it, we don’t talk about it. But I can’t leave you down here in good conscience. Would you be able to sleep in mine and Pepper’s room?” 

Yes. “I thought you were avoiding Pepper, though,” Peter said hesitantly. “I don’t want to be a—“

“An exhausted asshole tomorrow morning? Good, neither do I. Let’s go,” Natasha said. Stood up and began walking, then looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “Don’t be worried, Peter. No one thinks you’re a bother. In fact, we‘re all fond of you. So you should come sleep before you die and piss everyone off.” 

Well. That was settled. 

As unsettling as it was that everyone could apparently read all of his emotions on his face, he couldn’t help but be relieved. He’d be sleeping tonight, at least. 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: idiot Tony!

It had been six whole months since Tony had passed his drug bill. A little over six months since Tony had hired Peter. And they had been some of the most productive six months Tony had ever had in government: the abortion bill had, by some miracle, passed. They’d gotten Mendell on the Supreme Court, one of the most liberal justices to serve in fifty years. The budget was looking up and unemployment was down. Even that American Youth program was set to start in January, after Christmas and New Years. 

And now it was time for the White House Christmas party: the cherry on top. 

Now, Tony had left a lot of things behind when he’d switched from being a billionaire, playboy tech guy to a serious government official (including the vast majority of his wealth, which he had donated to various charities), but one of the things he missed were great parties. And sure, the White House Christmas party wasn’t exactly a rager—after all, Steve Rogers was hardly Taylor Swift—but it was a  _ party,  _ filled with good food and the most alcohol that ever stayed in the White House at one time, and, hey, that was good enough. 

This year’s had been decorated with tons of tiny lights, candles, and artificial snow. Anywhere else, it would have looked tacky (certainly at Tony’s old house in California, the one with the giant pool), but at the White House, it looked kind of lovely. Tony half-expected a bunch of child carolers to hop out at any moment. It wouldn’t have been shocking: that’s exactly what had had happened last year. 

Scotch in hand, he navigated the party, looking for a friend to talk to. His eyes caught on Natasha, who was holding a glass of vodka and staring around the party. 

Tony still wasn’t one hundred percent positive Nat wasn’t a Russian spy. Still, he sidled up to her, leaned against the bar and watched for a minute before saying, “You look like you’re having fun.” 

Nat took a sip of her vodka. Who  _ sipped vodka?  _ Russian spies, that was who. 

“Actually, I am,” she replied. “So many stupid people at these parties. So fun to watch,” she said with a smirk.

“Unfortunately,” Tony sighed, “I have to work with those stupid people.”

Nat nodded. “That is too bad,” she said. “You’ve done well enough for yourself, though. You’ve certainly had a good year.” 

Tony could concede that. “We’ve had a good year,” he corrected, because he’d had two scotches and was feeling magnanimous.

Nat didn’t say anything, just stared out at the crowd. Tony followed her gaze and was surprised to find it was trained on Pepper, who was wearing a beautiful light blue jumpsuit, which complimented her somehow-still tan skin, glowing with the candlelight. She was holding a glass of champagne and laughing with an odious Republican Senator—one of those people that only Pepper Potts could charm.

“If you’re planning on murdering the Press Secretary, then I’m honor-bound to try and stop you,” Tony remarked, though, in all honesty, if Natasha did try to murder Pepper, he would probably hide underneath a table. Some people, he’d stand up to. He wasn’t sure Natasha was one of them. 

“Actually,” Nat said, pushing off of her pose on the bar, “I was planning on asking her out.” 

She left and walked towards Pepper, leaving Tony choking on his scotch.

He’d  _ known  _ Nat was bi! Ha. 

He gazed around the rest of the party, trying to figure out who to sweet talk. He was never better at it than when he was a little tipsy and a little giddy. Out far on his left, next to the buffet, Rhodey was talking to a big donator that Tony had assigned him to woo, because that guy was as boring as bricks. Next. There was Bruce, having an animated conversation with someone whose back was turned—Quentin Beck, maybe? Tony couldn’t tell—so it was probably about policy, which Tony didn’t really want to talk about tonight. 

Ah. Peter Parker, three o’clock, smiling politely as some old geezer of a Senator talked to him. Tony had become more than a little attached to Peter over the past six months, something everyone from Rhodey to Happy made fun of him for, but they’d grown attached, too. How could anyone not? Peter was highly intelligent but modest, kind to a fault and always eager to help. And, once out of his shell, moderately funny.

Tony even looked at him as a sort of mentee, although he would definitely not be admitting  _ that  _ to anyone anytime soon. He’d built an idea of Peter’s future career in his head: next year, he’d go to Georgetown, and then get a law degree, if he wanted, and work his way up to Senator—even majority leader. He belonged on the hill; he was a policy wonk if Tony had ever met one, and although he did a fine job in the executive branch, a  _ great  _ job, Tony knew his heart was in congress, even if the kid had never told him anything like that. 

Drawing himself out of his thoughts, he looked back to Peter, ready to go save him from the old geezer, but both the kid and the old guy were gone. Great. 

Disappointed, he made the trek over to a billionaire—Bill Nugent, he was pretty sure the guy’s name was—that they were trying to get to donate money to Steve’s run for second term, knocking back the rest of his scotch. 

“Hi, Bill!” He exclaimed, reaching his hand out for a firm shake.

The conversation with Nugent lasted until the end of dinner, while Tony peppered in inane compliments and facts about Steve.  _ He loves fishing _ , Tony said. He was pretty sure the President couldn’t actually tell a bass from a clownfish. Though, neither could he. He wasn’t even sure a bass was a fish. 

The rest of the party was more fun, though: he’d gone to the bathroom after his conversation with Nugent and, on his way back, had stumbled upon Pepper and Nat making out in one of the dark hallways—“Get a room!” he’d shouted, which had prompted Pepper, not even Nat, to throw her shoe at him—and that had sent him into a grin. And, of course, he had to tell Bruce.

“You haven’t noticed they’re into each other?” Was all Bruce said. 

Tony had whirled around and looked at his friend, nearly spilling his scotch. “You  _ did _ ?” he asked, shocked.

Bruce just shrugged. “Maybe you should spend more time listening and less time talking.”

“Could do that,” Tony agreed, still turning that over in his brain. He hadn’t noticed a  _ thing.  _ “Won’t. But I could. Hold on, though, Natasha is, like, impossible to read.” 

“Hardly,” Bruce laughed, which would have tanked Tony’s good mood if the party wasn’t quite so nice. But it  _ was  _ nice. The lights had dimmed and people were dancing and it was like something out of a movie.

Clint came up to them.

“Boooo,” Tony said. “Who invited the press.” Okay, so maybe he was a little drunk. 

Clint grinned. “Don’t you make the guest list, Tony?” 

Tony raised an eyebrow. “I  _ approve  _ of the guest list. I don’t  _ make  _ it. That would be Peter’s job, who definitely shouldn’t have invited the likes of  _ you. _ ” 

“You’re just jealous because Peter likes me more than you,” Clint countered, hip-bumping Tony. It seemed that Clint was also, in fact, drunk.

Maybe for next year they should re-think the open bar. 

“Absolutely not. I don’t even care,” Tony said, which sent Bruce and Clint into a fit of hysterics and imitations.

“ _ I don’t even care! _ ” Clint mimicked. “ _ I’m Tony Stark and I have daddy issues so I can’t show affection for another human being! _ ” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “In the future, Clint, try to make your burns sound more  _ funny  _ and less like you’re a part-time therapist who just read Freud for the first time.” But he laughed all the same, and left Clint and Bruce saying  _ I don’t care  _ back and forth in increasingly ridiculous voices. Someone interesting. Please, god, someone interesting. 

Peter was standing by the open bar. Tony walked up to him. 

“Peter,” Tony said, his tongue getting briefly caught in the word. He set his glass down on the counter and signaled the bartender for a refill. Yes, he was drunk. But, equally, he could be  _ more  _ drunk. And would be. “I hope you’re not breaking the law in the White House. Again.” 

Peter shook his head. “I don’t have the bracelet, Mr. Stark,” he said, holding up his wrist to show that, sure enough, he had no plastic blue bracelet that showed the bartenders he was old enough to drink. “So it’s diet coke for me,” he added, holding up his wine glass that was, sure enough, filled with the dark soda. 

Tony wrinkled his nose. “That stuff can strip the paint off a car, Pete.” He’d seen it on  _ Mythbusters  _ once. Which begged the question: why had he ever been watching  _ Mythbusters?  _

“Isn’t alcohol basically poison?” Peter replied, gesturing to the bar behind them. 

Tony thought about that. Took a sip of his poison. “Fair point,” he finally conceded. “But it’s poison that gets you  _ drunk. _ ”

“You having fun?” Peter asked, glancing briefly at Tony’s already half-empty glass. Tony switched it over to his other hand, out of Peter’s sight line. 

“Don’t judge me, kid, I’ve seen you in a Percy Jackson shirt,” Tony countered. And so he had: they’d slept over in the office the night of Justice Mendell’s confirmation, him, Peter, Pepper, Nat, Rhodey, and Bruce all on the floor, and when they’d woken up, they’d all been wearing their clothes from the day before—except Peter, who had, at some point, changed into an orange Camp Half-Blood shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Tony had taken a photo. 

“They were my pajamas!” Peter protested.

“Pete, the fact that you bring your pajamas to work every day like you’re just  _ expecting  _ your life to turn into an impromptu sleepover party doesn’t make it much better,” Tony said.

“Well, it  _ did  _ turn into an impromptu sleepover party,” Peter said. “And I’ve stopped bringing those. I didn’t realize everyone else had discussed just falling asleep in their clothes.” 

Tony leaned his head back and laughed. He was in that great part of being drunk where everything was sparkly, not quite spinning yet, and this was probably the best conversation he had ever had. And he had had several conversations with Anderson Cooper, so that was saying something. 

“We didn’t discuss it, Pete. It’s just sort of common sense.” He shook his head, then said, “I got you something. A Christmas present, if you will.” 

He’d been debating over the past week whether or not to give it to Peter—he’d made the present two months ago when he was completely wasted and feeling sentimental, and, in the light of day, it was embarrassing. Embarrassing enough that he hadn’t told anyone about it. But Clint and Bruce saying that he couldn’t show affection had pushed him over the edge. 

“You—you already gave me a present, remember?” Peter said. “A week ago. You—“

“Getting you a new suit wasn’t a present to you, Peter, it was a present to me. If you’re going to be my personal aide you can’t wear grey all the time. That’s just not how I roll.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. Why was he being awkward? Stupid alcohol, making him overthink things. “Anyways. Here.” He took the box out of the inner pocket of his suit and passed it to Peter, who took it hesitantly. 

“If you’re proposing…” Peter started, jokingly, but stopped talking as soon as he opened the box. 

Inside was a blue pin that read  _ Parker for Senate, 2030,  _ with red and white stars encircling the circumference. 

“That comes with my endorsement,” Tony said after Peter still hadn’t spoken for a moment. “And any help with your campaign you might need, although I doubt you’ll need much. You know, I wasn’t sure whether maybe you wanted to run for the House, but I gotta advise you that the Senate is a better fit for—“

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, abruptly, cutting through his rambling. Tony looked at him. He was smiling and his eyes were shining. Shit. Tony was too drunk to be this sentimental. Or too sober, maybe. Or just too Tony Stark. 

“Yeah. It’s no—you’re welcome,” Tony settled on, and clapped Peter on the back. “I mean, you’re the one who’s got to do the work. But I know you can do it. You’re going places, kid.” 

“Thanks,” Peter said again, still looking at the pin. “I’m—I’m not going to pin this on right now, though. It would probably confuse people.” 

“Good point,” Tony said. “I can—do you want me to take it?” 

Peter shook his head. “I have a pocket in my suit, too, thanks to you,” he said, and slipped the pin inside the breast pocket of the dark blue suit Tony had bought him. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Tony waved him off. Then reconsidered. “Actually, you know what I’d love? A photo of your aunt.” 

Peter’s face crinkled. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “She’s my  _ aunt. _ ” 

“No!” Tony said quickly, although _ if the opportunity arose, Peter’s aunt was pretty hot, not that he would tell Peter that, get back on track you idiot,  _ “It’s for...well, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. We have a pool about whether your aunt exists. In the office.” 

Peter’s eyes widened. “You’ve _ met  _ my aunt, Mr. Stark. Remember?” 

“Proof, Peter,” Tony said. “I didn’t get proof.” 

Peter took a sip of his coke. “Who doesn’t believe I have an aunt?” He demanded after a minute. 

“Uh, Bruce. Rhodey. Pepper. Friday.” 

“So nearly everyone,” Peter groaned. 

“President Rogers,” Tony added. 

Peter squeaked. “President  _ Rogers—“ _

“This isn’t bullying, is it?” Tony mused. “I was never clear on exactly what bullying is. Maybe hazing. No, hazing is worse, isn’t it? Let’s call it friendly concern, that sounds marketable. So, a picture?” He tacked on hopefully. 

“Absolutely not, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, and Tony shook his head in disappointment.

Tony left a few minutes later when he caught sight of a potential donor looking bored by the puff pastry, and he didn’t see Peter for the rest of the night, except once, talking to Beck in a hallway in quiet voices. Tony was looking for Pepper and Nat at the time, and so hadn’t bothered to interrupt; they looked serious and so were probably talking about the new policy Beck was pushing that Steve really did not want to support, and Tony didn’t really want to get into that, right now, anyways. He’d turned around and found Pepper and Nat back in the party, talking to Bruce, and the three of them had laughed at him as soon as he’d approached, so he had quickly turned around and gone to talk to more potential donors. 

By the time the party was over several hours later, Tony was pretty sure he’d managed to secure millions of dollars for the campaign from several different donors, but his chest felt a little like a popped balloon. He’d felt this way after the last Christmas party: the problem was, once the party was over, it was all too evident that the good work was going to start back up in a few days. 

Not that Tony didn’t like his job. On the contrary, he loved it. He had quit  _ tech  _ for it. But sometimes, he found himself wistfully thinking about retirement. Which was ridiculous, because he wasn’t even forty-five. And it was a thought that passed quickly. But it hung around in his brain now, as did the fourth scotch. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. 

Well, as long as he was up, then, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little bit of light work to distract himself. There was some PR work to do for the American Youth program that he was going to have Friday delegate to some intern, but he would probably do it better, so he made the short trip to his office. 

When he went into his office, he realized it was raining and the windows were open. Hurriedly, he shut them, and then smiled—there was something lovely, if not completely seasonal, about the sound of rain hitting the window. He pulled out his laptop and started looking for photos. 

They were looking for a last bout of applicants, ones taking a gap year so that they could be flown in from far away and do more full-time work. Which meant they needed promotional images, and Tony had just wanted to hire a photographer and pull a couple of teenagers off of the street for an impromptu photo shoot, but Friday had said  _ I’m sure there are some photos of Senators and teenagers on the internet you can use, Tony, _ so, adequately reprimanded, he’d acquiesced. 

Who would have worked with teenagers before? Who in Congress was charitable enough, instead of a curmudgeonly asshole? 

Tony snapped his fingers. “Got it,” he said out loud to no one, and started searching. 

He found a good-quality photo of Quentin Beck and a high school-ish intern in no time, dated three years previously. Barely looking at it, he pressed print and pulled the photo out of the printer. 

Blown up and under the desk light, however, something caught his eye. Once he realized what it was, he stopped short. 

That wasn’t any old high school intern. 

That was Peter fucking Parker. 

Oh, absolutely not. 

Peter had worked with Quentin Beck  _ three years ago?  _ Anger in the pit of his stomach, Tony pulled out his phone. Peter had made it seem like he’d never worked in politics before. Hell, they’d met with Beck at least a few times since Peter had started working, and the kid had never said  _ anything  _ about working with him! What, was he some kind of ridiculous spy for Beck, planted so they had an inside source in the White House? Or did he just want Tony to think he had no experience so he’d be more impressed by the knowledge he did have? 

Whatever it was, he had lied to Tony. Looked him straight in the eye, day after day, and lied to him without a second thought. 

_ Come to the office RN,  _ he texted Peter, and set his phone face-down on the table, breathing heavily. 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ft. Peter not having a great Christmas party

It had been six months since Peter started working for Tony. Since that first day, he had learned how to hold his own in a meeting, helped pass several important bits of policy, and made friends. 

His aunt was happiest about the last thing. So was he, although he would never tell anyone that. He was still starstruck about Dr. Banner, but they talked all the time. Pepper had once sat him down for three hours to coach him about how to talk about the press—he couldn’t complain. Clint Barton had done the same, although everyone else had told Peter to take everything Clint said with a grain of salt, and he trusted Pepper more, so. Every deep conversation he had had with Natasha had been just as strange as the first, although after she had opened up about Pepper that first time, she had consequently complained about her crush every time they’d talked since. Which Peter wasn’t upset about, because it was super interesting to see Natasha have emotions. 

Even he and President Rogers had spoken a couple times since that plane ride when Peter had admonished him; mostly about policy, but once, when Peter had been wearing his reading glasses, about being called four-eyes in high school. Apparently, the President hadn’t ever been extremely muscular, which Peter couldn’t quite believe. 

And, of course, Tony. Tony was…something else. He and Peter were, in many ways, very different: Tony was sarcastic to a fault, wasn’t afraid to bare his wit to anyone and everyone, and cut directly to the point. None of Peter’s uming and likes. Or even a modicum of politeness. Peter, on the other hand, was deferent and had only recently learned to stop being interrupted. But their brains, somehow, worked in similar ways; they always knew what the other was thinking, or what the other person was about to think. 

And now, tonight, Tony had given him that pin. Peter had had to stop himself from crying, which would have made him look irreparably stupid, probably, but he couldn’t help it: it was so hard to tell, sometimes, what Tony was thinking. This made it clearer, very clear. Luckily, Tony had left a few minutes later to go talk to a donor, which had allowed Peter to walk into a dark hallway and quickly wipe away his tears in peace, facing the wall. 

Or, in peace until he felt someone come up behind him. He swiveled, and was confronted with Quentin Beck in front of him. Peter backed up and hit the wall. 

Beck didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked. Peter tried to side-step, his heart tripping over itself in its beats, but Beck blocked him. 

“I need to get back,” Peter tried, but his voice sounded wavering and weak, even in the silence of the hallway. Beck was so close to him, god, why was he so close? Memories of the campaign, of what Beck did three years ago, hit him in full force. 

“Nice party,” Beck said finally. 

Peter couldn’t breathe. “Yeah,” he gritted out, because was that why Beck had cornered him in a dark hallway? To talk about how nice of a party it was?

But he was talking again. “You certainly seem to be getting close with Stark,” Beck said, not moving from his place planted firmly in front of Peter. Peter could have laughed at that, actually, because whatever Beck was trying to insinuate about Tony was wrong, Peter knew it was wrong because he had made sure, he had checked and rechecked and studied all of their interactions and knew, except he couldn’t laugh because Beck was still inches from him and his hands were shaking, now. 

But Beck didn’t follow through with whatever he almost-said. He changed the subject instead. “You heard about that climate change bill I co-wrote? It just passed the house. We think it’s gonna pass the Senate, soon, too.” 

Peter did know the bill. He had studied it. And it was a good bill, though Peter couldn’t bring himself to be happy at the progressive win. 

“That’s great,” he managed, turning his head, looking away from Beck. There was no one around—Peter couldn’t get out, but Beck wouldn’t try anything here, would he? He pressed further against the wall. Like that would help. At least it would keep him standing, because his legs were shaking and there was no way this would end well if he had to sit down. 

“You know, Pete, I know you think you have some piece of information on me that could...be unpleasant for me, if it got out,” Beck started. “And maybe you think you should tell people. I thought I’d remind you: no one will thank you if you do that.” He moved ever-so-closer to Peter and Peter couldn’t move backwards at all, so just kept looking away, head turned to the side. 

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. Was that Tony? He nearly breathed a sigh of relief—Tony was here, Tony was here to save him, he saw what was happening—but then maybe-Tony left, and Peter remembered that Tony didn’t know, didn’t have any reason to think that Peter was in trouble. 

No one was coming to save him. He was alone. 

“Your aunt certainly won’t thank you. Remember? Her job depends on being liked by all of my pals in Congress. Tony won’t thank you. What a political mess for him, huh? Not to mention President Rogers. I mean, a scandal this close to his campaign for a second term would be devastating.” He said. His voice was so sincere, so concerned—Peter could have thrown up.

“And, of course, the American public certainly wouldn’t thank you. After all, besides the climate change bill, I’ve helped pass prison reform bills, legislation that stops discrimination against LGBT people...all of those things you helped me campaigned on, remember? I’m doing good work, Pete. And you...you’re not more important than that. You know that, right?” 

Peter was only half-hearing Beck’s speech because his chest was so tight and he was just trying to hold himself up against the wall, to not keel over at Beck’s feet. “Right,” he echoed, nodding furiously. “Right.”

He hadn’t even been planning on telling Tony, anyways. Because, as much as he hated to admit it, Beck was right. It wouldn’t be worth it. He had come to that conclusion, a conclusion that was suddenly very hard to hold onto as Beck had him pressed up against a wall, inches away, but a conclusion he knew was true nonetheless. Beck wouldn’t risk doing anything now, not anything like last time. So it was fine. It was fine. Peter wouldn’t tell anyone. 

Beck broke into a smile. Even in the dark, it glinted. “Fantastic,” he said. “I’m so glad we’re in agreement. And hey, who knows? Maybe in a few years we’ll be writing bills together, huh? Just like old times.” 

Just like old times. 

Peter swallowed the sick that rose in his throat and gave one quick, sharp nod. Which was, thankfully, enough for Beck: he grinned again and backed off. 

“So nice to talk to you again, Pete,” he said, his voice louder, if barely. 

As soon as he had left, Peter close-to ran out of the hallway, away from the party, until he was outside, in the courtyard. He sunk down, sat against a bench, hugged his knees.

It was raining, but he barely noticed. His heart was still hammering and his chest heaving and he couldn’t breathe. Five things, he managed to remember, his thoughts skittering all around, bouncing back and forth between no one will thank you and just like old times. Five things he could see. The bench. The bush. His hands. Beck’s smile—no, Beck wasn’t here, the pathway. The rain. 

He kept going with the exercise and Beck slowly disappeared as Peter became steadily more and more soaked through and freezing. Once he was breathing more normally, he just sat there, staring. It was cold, too cold, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to go back into that party, back to where Beck was, and he would have to return to pretending nothing was wrong. 

He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t. Could he? 

His phone dinged: a text. He pulled it out, leaning over so rain wouldn’t get all over the screen. Tony had texted: Come to the office RN. 

Well. That would be a distraction, at least—maybe there was a problem with the investors Tony had been talking to at the party, or something. His presence, at the very least, would be comforting. 

Peter got up and made his way to Tony’s office. Somehow, inside where there was heating, Peter was colder, the rain cutting right to his skin through his shirt. When had he lost his blazer? He must have set it down on a chair back at the party, or something—he would go get it later, once the crowd had thinned out and he could be sure Beck was no longer a threat. 

When he opened the door to Tony’s office, it was dark, though Peter could make out Tony’s figure sitting at his desk. He stepped in. 

“Shut the goddamn door, Peter,” Tony snapped. 

He sounded pissed. 

“Is everything okay?” Peter asked. “Did something happen with the investors?” With Mr. Conan? I saw you were talking to him at the—“ But then Peter broke off, because he had seen something on Tony’s desk. 

A photograph. A photograph of him, of Beck’s arm wrapped around him, from three years ago. From back when he helped Beck campaign. 

Fuck. 

“Oh,” Peter said quietly. His mind was racing—what could he say? How could he explain this? And quieter, but still there, Beck’s voice: no one will thank you. Your aunt...Tony….President Rogers...I’m doing good work. You’re not important than that, the whole speech repeating like a chant in his mind. 

A speech that Tony couldn’t hear. “‘Oh’, indeed. I told you the day I hired you I don’t like being lied to.” Peter heard, and he registered vaguely that the anger shaking Tony’s voice was directed at him. For lying. Because, of course, Tony didn’t know. He probably thought Peter was working with Beck, for gods sake. 

If only he could think, if only he could get Beck’s voice out of his head for two seconds so he could think, but the chant just continued. And even if he could, what would he do? Lie more? He couldn’t do that, it wasn’t sustainable. And he definitely couldn’t tell the truth. He opened his mouth to say something, but had nothing to say, so closed it. 

“Trying to come up with another lie?” Tony asked. “Please. Try to explain away you being Quentin Beck’s intern and that never coming up in conversation.”

Peter bit his lip. Looked at the photo, at Beck’s arm around him. “Mr. Stark—“ he began, without really knowing what he wanted to say, but Tony cut him off. 

“Don’t you ‘Mr. Stark’ me. I see right through it, Peter. You know, I don’t like being made a fool of.” He stepped closer to Peter and in Peter’s head Beck said you certainly seem to be getting close to Stark but that he was able to get rid of. Tony was angry. And hurt. But Peter knew him. Still, he took a step back, held his hands up.

“And,” Tony continued, “I really don’t like that you and Beck were conspiring to , what, get a couple extra dollars for planned parenthood? Push environmental policy to the third place on the agenda instead of the fourth? Really. That’s petty stuff to sacrifice your entire political career for.” 

Peter wasn’t an idiot. He heard the threat in that. He’d seen other people face Tony’s wrath. He just had never expected to be on the receiving end of it. 

“Because I have my own strings I can pull, Peter. And it wouldn’t be selfish. Politicians need to know how to twist the truth, it’s true, but we don’t straight-up lie. At least, us good ones don’t. So why should a liar ever work another day in government?” 

And Peter knew that wasn’t right. He knew that if Tony knew the whole story, he wouldn’t do that. But if he told, then it wouldn’t just be his career on the line. It would be May’s. And Tony’s. And who knew who else. 

Tony’s chest was heaving. Peter stared at the photo. 

“Are you going to fire me?” Peter asked finally, quietly, even though he knew the answer. 

“You bet your ass I’m going to fire you,” Tony confirmed. “I can’t trust you, why would I ever want you to set a goddamned foot in my office?” He broke off. Sighed. Started again, his voice cooler, resigned. “Just get out,” he said. “Get out of my office. I’ll give your things to Friday, you can collect them on Boxing Day or whatever. You’re done.” 

Peter stood there for a moment, trying to come up with anything to say, anything at all. “It was nice to work for you, Mr. Stark,” he settled on finally. “I hope…I hope that everything, um.” But he couldn’t even manage that sentence, so instead, he turned around and practically fled the office. 

It had been such a good six months, too, overall. He should have known everything was going to come apart. 

  
  
  
  


Peter’s general plan had been that he would hide in his apartment for a while, never go near the White House again, and then find a new career path. Maybe chemistry, or photography, or his third-grade self’s dream job, marshmallow-tester. He had nearly, a few days ago, taken a hammer to the pin Tony had given to him when he’d found it in the pocket of his suit he was taking to the dry cleaners, but he couldn’t bear to. Instead he hid it deep in a drawer and hoped he would never see it again, somehow. 

He couldn’t even tell his Aunt May what had happened. Because as much as he loved and trusted her, he knew if she found out that Tony had fired him, let alone what he’d fired him for, she would go charging into his office to yell at him, and that just couldn’t happen.

So yesterday, January 2nd, he’d gone out early in the morning and walked around all day, reading newspapers and looking for HELP WANTED signs, pretending to go to work, and come home complaining about this year’s budget and paperwork and meetings. 

More lying. Lies on lies on lies. Would he ever stop feeling guilty? 

Today, he had been resolved to do the same thing. He couldn’t interview for a job at McDonalds, because sometimes Aunt May picked up food from there, or the Indian food place down the street for the same reason—let alone the Thai place that Tony sometimes went to—but there was a call for freelance photography in one paper and an internship application at some shitty firm in another, and although he wasn’t sure he could get either of those jobs, it was at least something to try. 

His entire plan had flown out the window when he’d read an article in The New York Times about the American Youth program. 

He had personally finished arranging the candidates a month ago. He had set them all up, had matched Congresspeople with high school students like his life depended on it, and had been very, very careful to put Beck with a mousy-looking girl who was as far from Peter as anyone could possibly be. 

But someone had switched around a few of the pairings. Done some fixing. And now Beck was paired with Timothy Art: a junior in high school, brown hair, brown eyes, who could have been Peter’s brother. 

Peter stumbled to a stop in the middle of the busy street. Stared at the news article. Blinked. His heart thumped, flipped, and dropped sickeningly to the pit of his stomach where it then stayed, sucking up all of his air. 

Because he knew he had to stop this. To fix this. If you have the power to do good, and then bad things happen, they’re your fault. And he could do good. He could stop this. 

He just had to go against his entire plan and march right back into the office of White House Chief of Staff Tony Stark. And tell him...well, not that, but tell him something. 

Friday wouldn’t let him in. But he knew someone who could get past Friday, who did so on a weekly basis. Trying to ignore his hands, which were trembling, why did they always have to do that, he dialed the number. 

“Hey, Peter,” the voice on the other end of the line said, cautious. 

“Clint,” Peter said, breathless. It felt like forever since he had talked to any of the people from the White House, not the mere week it had actually been. “Hi. Um. I need help.” 

“Stark told us not to talk to you. Anyone that’ll listen. He said you, uh,” Clint suddenly dropped off awkwardly. “Well, you probably don’t need to know what he said about you.” 

Peter grimaced. That didn’t feel good. But he pressed on. “I swear, I just need help this one time and then you never have to talk to me again. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” 

“Hey!” Clint said quickly. “No one said anything about never talking to you again. Uh. Well. No one except Stark, I guess. We miss you, kid. We’re not going to cut you out just because Tony is being a—well, I probably shouldn’t say that either.” 

Warmth spread through Peter’s chest. They didn’t all hate him? 

“Anyways,” Clint’s voice continued. “What do you need?” 

“I need to see Mr. Stark,” Peter said. 

Clint was quiet for a moment. “Kid…” he began. “If you’re going to bring him flowers and an apology letter, I honestly don’t think he’s open to that. He’s...he has a lot of great qualities, but forgiveness isn’t—“

“No,” Peter said firmly. “It’s not that. Can you do it, though? Can you help me?” 

“Meet me by the Lincoln Memorial in a half hour,” Clint said. “We’ll slip in when Friday’s having her lunch break. And Pete?” 

“Let me guess, I owe you one?” Peter joked. 

“No,” Clint sighed. “I was going to say—if Stark is a dick to you, call me. I’ll punch him in the face for you.”

“Oh,” Peter said, taken aback. “Thanks.”

“I’m not kidding,” Clint said, and with that, hung up, leaving Peter standing in the middle of the street. 

Hurriedly, Peter walked to the Lincoln Memorial. It was about a twenty minute walk, and so once he got there, he had ample time to sit on the steps and let anxiety run through him. 

What was he going to say? He still didn’t know. But he had to say something. 

He saw Clint before Clint saw him, and stood up. Waved. Clint jogged over, gave Peter a once-over. 

“No offense,” Clint said, “But you don’t look great.” 

Peter wasn’t surprised. A week of not sleeping or eating well, in combination with the pure anxiety of the past hour, probably made him look like a ghost. Clint was being nice. He shrugged, though, and said, “You have a plan?” 

“This isn’t a Special Ops mission. Friday has her lunch break from 12:20 to 12:50 on Wednesdays. We walk in, I flash my pass, you flash yours—god, he didn’t make you turn in your gun and badge when he fired you, did he?” 

“I don’t have a gun,” Peter deadpanned. 

“It was a—“

“Yeah, I know. No, I still have my pass,” Peter said. 

“Great. Great. Okay, so we get in there. Stark never takes his lunch break at the same time as Friday—I still haven’t figured out the why of that one, but it’s an indisputable truth—so he’ll be in there.” 

“Okay,” Peter said, nodding, trying to project confidence. “Okay.” 

From the look of pity Clint gave him, his attempt had failed, but he kindly didn’t say anything about it. 

And, as Clint had promised, it was no Special Ops mission. No one had stopped him at the door, he hadn’t run into Pepper or Dr. Banner or, god forbid, the President, on his way to Tony’s office. Even Tony’s interns hadn’t batted an eye at him being there, although Peter was pretty sure that that had to do with the fact that Clint had them busy giving away government secrets. 

He knocked on the door. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ft. Tony being a tool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all!!!! thank u so much for all of ur comments. sorry this took me so long!!!!

There was a knock on Tony’s door. 

“Come in, Friday!” He called, not looking up from his work. 

“Hi, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony looked up. Peter was hovering next to the already-shut door, hands in his pockets. He looked terrible, Tony noted vaguely, pale and drawn and nervous, and worry swelled in his chest. He crushed it. Peter had betrayed him. 

“Was I not clear a week ago? You’ve been fired,” Tony said, and forced his eyes back down to his work. He couldn’t read it, couldn’t focus at all, but he certainly couldn’t look at Peter’s wide eyes. 

“I know that, but—“ 

“Do you need synonyms?” Tony bit. “Dismissed. Let go. Axed, sacked, terminated, sent packing. You’ve been shown the door, and I’m all too happy to show it to you again. It’s right there, see? Goodbye.” He flung his hand in the direction of the door. 

“If you would just—“

“I will  _ not  _ just. Friday!” Tony called, looking behind Peter at the exit. He needed someone to get him  _ out  _ of this situation, because as much as he couldn’t trust Peter he still wanted to re-hire him, and he couldn’t do something stupid and emotional like that. 

“She’s not here, Mr. Stark, she’s on her lunch break—“

“Barton,” Tony growled, because there was only  _ one  _ person who had Friday’s schedule fucking memorized. “ _ Barton  _ helped you get in here? I swear to god—“ Tony stood up, slammed his hand on his desk before he even realized what he was doing because now he had to deal with another asshole who he thought he trusted. 

“Please, I need—“

“I don’t care if you need this job. If you needed it that badly, you wouldn’t have lied to me. Go work at McDonald’s. I. Don’t. Care,” Tony seethed, still not looking at Peter. 

“Tony!”

Peter had never called him Tony before. 

“I’m not here to ask for my job back,” Peter said. 

“Fine,” Tony said, fists still clenched. “I’ll bite. If you’re not here for a job, then what the hell are you here for? If you want a reference, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” 

“No, I’m—“ Peter took a breath. “You need to reassign one of the American Youth kids.” 

That came so far out of left field that Tony had to take a moment to remember what American Youth was. Was Peter seriously asking… “Jesus, Peter, you’re twenty, I’m not putting you in a program for high school—“

“Not me!” Peter said. “No. It’s not that. It’s...it’s the guy you assigned Beck. You need to switch that back to—“

Tony’s anger flared. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now. You think I’m going to do anything for you and your pal Beck? What, are you trying to get him the best quality unpaid labor? The high school intern with the highest ACT scores or something? God. You only took a  _ week  _ to show your true colors. Unbelievable.” 

Peter was silent for a moment. Tony’s anger didn’t abate. What, seriously, was Peter’s thought process right now? Had their entire relationship been a ruse? Been worth so little? Because Tony, stupidly, had  _ cared  _ about the kid—had gotten him that stupid fucking  _ button,  _ for Christ’s sake. 

“He’s not my pal,” Peter said, finally, and Tony could hear frustration in his tone, and what reason did  _ he  _ have to be frustrated? “I don’t work for him. This isn't for him.” 

Tony crossed his arms. “Yeah. Right. I’m not an idiot.” 

“I know you don’t trust me, Mr. Stark, but you did once, and I—I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I need you to trust me, just on this. Then I’ll leave. I’ll never come back. But you have to change that assignment. You have to—there was a girl, I think her name was Claire? She would be good. Or no one. But you have to—“

“I don’t have to do shit,” Tony snarled. “You’re right. I trusted you. Now, I don’t, because you lied to me. You worked with Beck to do—I don’t know what, but you clearly worked with him, and now you’re trying to get me to do him a favor on the basis of the trust you broke not a  _ week  _ ago? And you think I’ll be amenable to that? Maybe you’re not as smart as I pegged you, because, Christ, that is just not tactically sound.” His chest was heaving. 

Peter was quiet for a long moment. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. Wouldn’t look at Tony. Took a deep breath, then swallowed that breath, then took another.

“I have reason to believe that if you place, uh, his name is Timothy Art, in Beck’s office, the Congressman will assault him. Um. Sexually assault him.” 

Tony’s anger dissipated. He stilled. Worked over that in his head, looked for some hidden meaning that didn’t make him into a complete asshole. 

“Peter,” he said, his voice low and strained, “What reason would that be?” 

The silence was tense. Tony was trying to look at Peter, now, but Peter wasn’t looking at Tony, was looking instead at floor. Tony swallowed. Looked at his bookshelf. Looked back at Peter.

“Campaign trail. I was his intern, um, 3 years ago. That’s the photo you saw. It was a, um, summer internship thing,” Peter said finally.. “Timothy, um. Timothy Art. The American Youth kid, he, um, he looks like me. A lot like me. And is the age that I was. When. Yeah.”

Neither of them moved. Neither of them said anything.

The kid’s hands were shaking.

“I think…” Tony began, and then stopped. Didn’t know what to say.

“You--you have to believe me, Mr. Stark--” 

Jesus. Tony was a fucking asshole. He held up his hand. The kid’s mouth snapped closed. 

“I believe you,” Tony said. “God. Kid. I believe you.” 

The kid shuffled. Stuck his hands back in his pockets. “I should have--” he began. 

“Don’t,” Tony warned, because the only thing that would be worse than everything that was happening right now would be if Peter blamed himself for any of it. 

God, how had he been so blind to it all? He looked back, catalogued. They’d interacted with Beck. Peter had been in a room with Beck, more than once. “Grilled cheese,” he murmured. “Grilled cheese and—you didn’t want this job.” Because of course Peter didn’t want the job. He’d been afraid. “The couch. The door, you don’t like—“ his eyes flickered to the door. It was closed, now, something that Tony had noticed bothered Peter but hadn’t looked into. Why hadn’t he looked into it?

He ran a hand over his face. That first lunch, Peter hadn’t eaten a  _ bite.  _ He was so stupid. And Beck… “He kept—during lunch. Jesus. I’m. Jesus Christ.” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not Jesus Christ,” Peter joked half-heartedly, 

Tony looked at him, finally, and his eyes softened. “Kid,” he said, quiet. “Peter. I’m...I’m so sorry.” 

Peter bit his lip. “You don’t need—I mean, it’s fine, Mr. Stark. I did lie to you.” 

Tony smiled mirthlessly. “Yeah. Mhm. Except sometimes, I just need to learn that I don’t get to know everything about everyone’s lives all the—mm, nope, wait a second. Record scratch. You  _ did  _ lie.” 

Peter’s eyes widened. “Mr. Stark—“

“That came out wrong. Accusatory. And I should probably stop interrupting you, shouldn’t I? But. Point being. You  _ did  _ lie. You—he—he threatened you? Is that it? Not mad,” Tony said quickly, because he wasn’t mad, he shouldn’t ever have been mad. “Not—this isn’t a, a blame thing. Not for you. You’re.” 

For once, Tony was having as much trouble with his words as Peter often did. 

“He...sort of?” Peter replied, which wasn’t much more eloquent.

Shit, Tony was going to kill this guy.

Tony waited. 

“Um. He did, when. He. I mean, that was three years ago. I don’t know if there’s, like, a time limit for threats. Can’t exactly consult the. Um. Constitution, for the statute of limitations on blackmail.” 

Again, with the jokes that Tony didn’t even try to laugh at. 

Peter soldiered on. “And—I mean, he...insinuated. At the. Grilled cheese, thing. And a few, a few months later, at that event for, um, the union thing. And then last week, he briefly…” 

Right. The Christmas party. Tony had seen Peter with Beck, the two of them alone in a dark hallway. And he’d just walked on by. 

“‘You shouldn’t screw with me, you know. I’ll end your career,’” Tony said, and Peter flinched. Tony noticed the movement. Took a step back. “Sorry. Beck. He said that, six—six months ago. At the lunch thing. Yeah? Yeah.” Tony took a deep breath. “Has he...has he tried anything?” 

“Like, recently? No,” Peter said. 

“Recently?” Tony’s eyes narrowed. 

“Sorry. Vague. Um. Since the, um, since three years ago. Nothing. Or, I mean, I hadn’t even seen him again since I, since I started. Here. And he hasn’t done anything. Since then.” 

“Okay,” Tony said. He looked at the ground. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Looked back at Peter. “Okay. Point number one is that I am—I am very happy that you decided to tell me. Not that you are under any moral or legal obligation to do so. Just that I’m, uh...proud. Mhm.” 

Peter didn’t say anything.

“Right. Point number two. I need to apologize, big time. And I mean, obviously, this is terrible timing, and I shouldn’t say this right now but I guess I’m already saying it so that’s great, but if you want your job back, and you should probably slap me in the face for even assuming that might be a possibility, but if you would like your job back, it’s yours. And not out of, like, pity. That’s because you’re damn good at it. Um. Got a little sidetracked there. Yep. Third point.” He cleared his throat. He’d been talking too long, he knew it, but he just had to get this all out there or he was afraid he would never be able to say it at all. “Third point is that Quentin Beck is not getting a reassignment.” 

“Mr. Stark—“ Peter began, but Tony continued. 

“Bad phrasing. Christ. What I mean to say is, he is not getting an intern. If I have anything to do with it he is never getting near another teenager in his goddamn life.” 

Peter swallowed. 

“Okay,” Tony said. “I’m done.”

Peter nodded again. Why wasn’t he talking? Was he having a heart attack? Tony really hoped Peter wasn’t having a heart attack. But after a moment, the kid said, “I do want my job back. If you’re sure that you—“

“I’m sure,” Tony said.

“I’ll probably need my desk back, in that case,” Peter said, a bit of a smile on his lips. 

Tony sighed and looked at the indents in the carpet that were still left from the legs of Peter’s desk. “I didn’t even take it out until this morning. Couldn’t bear to.”

They were both quiet for a moment, staring at the indentations. Tony’s mind was racing. Piecing things together. Trying to come up with a solution so that Peter wouldn’t have to be scared again.

“I did promise I’d be quiet. But there’s. There’s one more thing.” He looked at Peter, pained. “I hate to ask this of you, or to—and you can say no. But my primary plan to make Beck back off, um, permanently, at the moment—and I have a few working ones, but this is the most, ah, readily available—assuming you don’t want to go to the police, which you can, of course, and I will be right behind you, but—“

“I’ll probably end up worse off than Beck does,” Peter said quietly.

Tony grimaced, which was confirmation enough. “My working plan, in that case, involves—involves a couple of people. Um. Nat. Colonel Rhodes. Possibly. One other person. Now, they don’t have to know details. They  _ won’t  _ know details—“

“Can you—“ Peter said. Swallowed. Started again. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Them knowing. But I don’t—I don’t personally want to, um. Talk to them.” 

Tony nodded. That was easy. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Peter. Okay. Thank you. Now I’m done. One hundred percent. Do you want to sit?” He finished, because Peter’s legs were shaking and his face was pale. 

Peter sat down on the couch. Tony took his rolling chair from behind his desk and sat down in it a good six feet away from Peter. Peter swallowed. Stared at Tony’s knee for a while, then his shoulder. 

“You did good today, kid,” Tony said quietly. “Really good. I mean it.”

“Thanks,” Peter replied, and Tony heard the unmistakable sound of tears crack his voice.

“Ah.” This…this was not something he was good at. 

“‘m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, but the words came out half-strangled.

“Uh. I have to warn you I’m not great, though, at the—crying stuff. Do you want a hug? Yes? No? Totally good either way. Stop talking, Tony.”

Peter laughed. Coughed. “A hug would be good, I think.” 

“Okay. Great. Just, uh, punch me if you change your mind, or something,” Tony said, and got out of his chair, scooted around the coffee table. “You gonna stand, or…”

“Right! Right,” Peter said, and stood. 

Tony hugged him.

Tony was not a very good hugger. There was definitely excessive back patting. He was well practiced at many things, but, apparently, normal human contact wasn’t one of them. 

It was also sort of, unexpectedly, nice. 

When Peter pulled back, Tony backed away immediately, retreated to his own chair. He looked at Peter uncertainly. “You okay? Was that—“ 

“It was great,” Peter confirmed. “For the first hug you’ve ever participated in in your life, 10/10. Have you been practicing?”

“You’re an asshole,” Tony said. “And that’s a great look for me. Telling a twenty year old I just unfairly fired that he’s an asshole as he cries in front of me. Really rounds out this whole week nicely.”

“You do know how to take the high road, Mr. Stark,” Peter sniffed, and Tony shook his head with something almost like a smile. 


End file.
